All good things must come to an end...

but wait!

This blog isn't coming to an end, yet. But it is taking a break. A two-year break to be exact.

Have no fear! My travels in the Peace Corps are being documented here, at my new blog 27 Months in Peru

So go ahead and follow me over there. After all, you don't want to miss out on anything.

I feel I need to explain.

Stress does funny stuff to a person. It can make them sad, it can make them sick, it can make them crazy, it can make them joyless life-sucking jerks.

I think I'm experiencing all of the above.

I cry at the drop of the hat. I can be cold, short, and snappy. I am whinier than normal. I am a lot more uptight than normal. And lord knows, I am no fun right now.

And this makes me sad, because these are my last weeks here for a long time. Why would I make them un-enjoyable for everyone?

It's like I'm going through the stages of grief when I haven't lost anything yet. I am preparing myself for the losses, I guess. It's hard to be happy when I am forced to face all the things I'm going to miss-- weddings, birthdays, funerals, care-free summer evenings with close friends, running alone at twilight, lazy Sunday afternoons eating gluten-free pancakes with Justin...

and then all of those things I'm going to miss collide head-on with all of the things I've yet to do-- pack, move my stuff back to Idaho, visit friends, buy necessities (or just commodities), finish this marathon I've been training so hard for, etc.

My stomach has taken residence in my lower bowels, and my heart is caught in my throat. I just want to have a normal day without crying, obsessing over everything I still have to do, lamenting everything I'm going to miss, and stressing over my complete lack of control of it all.

It makes me feel like a big baby. And whether or not people feel like they understand what I'm going through or are sympathetic towards it, everyone gets tired of Cranky McCrankerson reeeaaaaaal quick.

So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I'm posting on Facebook too much, if I'm inconsolable, irrational, if you catch me staring into space and not hearing a word you say, if I give you the feeling that no matter what you do it's not good enough. I'm sorry these are my last impressions I will leave you with for awhile. Because I love everyone so much and I see what you're doing for me, even if it's something simple like recommending a camera or your thoughts on luggage. My brain has lost all decision-making capabilities. I have reached the point where I just need things done for me because so much of me has seized up in stress and terror. I don't want that to be the last you see of me, because I know things will be great. I know I will make great friends, create lasting relationships, and serve a purpose in my time away. I know that all of this isn't for nothing.

It's just hard to get a grip sometimes. And that's all I want to say.

I just want to take a moment to say, getting ready to leave for two-years sucks.

A lot.

If you haven't heard from me, it's because I'm doggy paddling in a sea of "to-do" lists, which include but aren't limited to:

-Go through stuff

-Get rid of stuff

-Run (marathon's coming up)

-Buy stuff

-Sell stuff (in order to have money after buying stuff)

-Pack stuff

-Run

-Pet Shmoo

-Run

-See family

-See friends

-Run

-Call friends I can't see

-Practice Spanish

-Run

-Tie loose ends

-Run

Oh, and somewhere in there is go to work full-time, eat, sleep, poop, and try not to get sick.

Some days it's too much to take, so I pretend it's not happening. And then I look at a calendar and my stomach drops and I think of all the things I have to do and all the people I have to say goodbye to, and it's just too much.

Because no matter what, I'm not going to feel even close to ready. Did I pack enough underwear? Did I say goodbye to everyone? Did I tell my family and friends I love you enough?

And then there are the feelings of incompetence.

Am I qualified for this? Is my Spanish good enough? Are these kids going to mow me over? Are people going to like me?

I don't need to hear people's opinions on this. I don't need someone to tell me people will love me or I'll do great. It's just so many people ask me "are you excited?" and I can't even begin to express how I feel. Excited? Kind of. Scared shitless? Ready to puke and/or cry at any moment? Comatose from being overwhelmed with it all?

Yes, very much so.

You gain strength, courage, and confidence by each experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face... You must do that which you think you cannot.

--Eleanor Roosevelt

The afternoon of Thursday, February 24th was a sunny day. I sat in the window seat of the coffee shop I work at, the sun all but burning me in its unexpected, yet more-than-welcome appearance after a dark morning of soft, pristine snow. I was trying to keep myself awake long enough for my ride to pick me up. It was almost 1:00 P.M. and I had already finished a full day of work. I pulled out the Eugene Weekly, delivered earlier that morning, and flipped straight to the horoscope section. My fatigued body crumpled and my back and head rested on the glass of the large front window. I read Gemini, smiled, and wondered if things like this were only coincidence? Either way, I grabbed the scissors and cut it out, hoping no Geminis would open this particular copy and be disappointed. It read:

"You're not scared of acquiring more clout and luster, right? You won't get nervous if you suddenly have to deal with more success than usual, right? You won't run away if a power spot you've been cultivating for yourself finally starts providing you with the opportunities and responsibilities you'd been hoping for, right? I just hope you're ready to handle the good stuff that's available, Gemini. Please don't confuse this enjoyable stress with the other kind."

My ride, Justin, showed up and I handed him the small paragraph I had just cut out without saying a word. After a moment of his eyes scanning the small font, he chuckled to himself and handed it back to me smiling.

The night before we had sat on the couch in our living room, warm and comfortable, basking in the perfect combination of lighting and colors that make our living room really worth living in. And while we were sitting on our comfy couch in our comfy house, with our nice and affordable things, full from a tasty meal, I started to cry. Not surprised by my sudden outburst, but concerned all the same, Justin asked why I was crying.

"Because I'm scared," I said.

And I was scared because I had received my invite to the Peace Corps, the thing I have been working towards for over eight months, but was not even sure I still wanted. The invite was for Peru leaving June 9 of this year to become a Youth Development Facilitator. All that time I put into applications, medical paperwork, phone calls, interviews, research, extra volunteering, financial and legal paperwork--it had all paid off. All of the good things and all of the bad things I had heard about the Peace Corps were laid out in front of me and now I was given seven days to deliberate between my desires and the information at hand to say "yes" or "no."

To say it in terms that are neither eloquent nor refined-- shit got real.

It was only natural that I was not only scared of leaving for 27 months, but also whether I would be making the right choice for my life and subsequently, the lives of those around me.

So as I sat on the couch crying and listing everything I was afraid of-- failing at my job, living with a host family that doesn't like me or is using me for money, my personal safety, my sanity, my relationships-- Justin stopped me and said, "So what you're really afraid of is the unknown."

It was so simple, and I hadn't even realized it myself. Tears running down my face, I took a deep breath in and sighed out, "Yeah. I'm really scared of the unknown."

And maybe the scariest part was, even will all these things I listed, I still wanted to say "yes."

Justin did the best thing a friend, companion, and boyfriend could do. He stayed strong while I was incredibly weak, and told me everything was going to be okay, this was my life to live and no one else's. He said my safety would always be a concern of his, but he knew I was smart. He would be sad to see me go, but he would hate even more for me to regret giving up a dream. I had waited for him to crumple with me, to tell me what to do whether it was stay or go, but he just hugged me and let me cry.

Realizing that my fears and worries could easily be summed up as "the unknown" made things a lot easier. Because when it comes down to it, I can't justify being scared of what I've yet to learn and understand. I spent years of my childhood scared of gremlins, ghosts, and E.T. Obviously, what I'm talking about is a lot bigger and more complex than that, but how many things in life start out big and scary but are diminished to such trivial fears?

I didn't say "yes" and accept my invite that day, or Thursday either for that matter. No matter how many ways I twisted it or tried to change it around, I knew in my heart of hearts it's what I wanted. I waited until the last possible day, day six, and I called my parents to let them know I would be accepting my invitation. I received confirmation of my acceptance on February 28th, and officially began the process of truly becoming a Peace Corps Volunteer, one day before the organization's 50th Anniversary.

I'm not saying there aren't risks in what I'm doing. I'm not saying that there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of, either. As I see it, the benefits outweigh the risks. I will have to take more precautions and be more conscious of my personal safety, that I understand. But right now, I don't have time to be scared. With less than three months to tie up loose ends and do what I can while I'm still in the U.S., being prepared (if that's even possible) is all I can think of. By June 10th I'll be in Peru beginning my three-month training, focusing on language and technical training, and in August I will begin my position as a Youth Development Facilitator. I'll be doing anything from guidance counseling, after-school programs, and HIV and STI awareness, to teaching English, starting a girls running club and helping build self-esteem through extra-curricular activities. I won't know whether I'll be placed in the Andes mountains, near the arid plains, or on the Pacific Coast until I've finished training, but when I do I'll spend my remaining two-years there and be living with a host family for my entire service. My return date, which startles me whether I'm saying it out-loud or writing it, is August 18, 2013.

Although this decision wasn't simple and I asked advice and thoughts from loved ones all over, I knew where the answer was all along. And that's why the horoscope was such a funny "coincidence." Like a school yard taunt, it seems like even the cosmos are asking me what I already know; I can't get scared and just run away, right?

"Well-behaved women rarely make history" --Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

Did I mention I’m training for a marathon?

Of course I have, because I kind of can’t stop saying it. Mostly to instill in myself the reality that I am, in fact, running a marathon.

Sometimes it feels impossible as I’m slowly chipping away. Today marked my first eight-mile run and 13 weeks until race day.

Marathon running was one of those “life goals” of mine that I felt I needed to do in order to prove my strength and willpower to myself, but never actually got the ball rolling on. It was always the wrong season, or I didn’t have anyone to run with, or I was just too busy. Glad I got over that, because starting is always the hardest part.

Since beginning my book The Complete Book of Running for Women and turning it into my personal running Bible, I have found a lot of inspiration and encouragement for continuing on with the pursuit of my goals and letting running fully become apart of my life. The most inspirational story to date for not just running, but for women in achieving equality, is that of Kathrine Switzer, the first woman to officially sign up for the Boston Marathon and run with a number in 1967. (Before that a woman named Roberta “Bobbie” Gibb had run the race unofficially in 1966 without a number or a recorded time).

Before reading this story, I was unaware the common belief was women weren’t physically capable of running 26.2 miles. It was even believed in anatomy and physiology and medicine. This was less than 50 years ago! I don’t know why this fact struck me so, since there have been so many misconceptions about the female body in history. It’s no secret women have been viewed as the “weaker sex.” I feel I have familiarized myself with many of the injustices women have endured on the path towards equality, so it is odd to me I have been so surprised by this. I guess I have been living so presently with the thought that women can do anything that I have somewhat removed myself from this other reality. I tell myself it’s “past” when it wasn’t long ago, and while things are better, they aren’t quite there yet.

I just started reading Switzer’s book, Marathon Woman, but read a short story about Switzer’s first running experiences in an excerpt from the book The Spirit of the Marathon, by Gail Waesche Kislevitz. Switzer had to endure a lot of prejudices to get where she was by the time she signed up for the Boston. She had competed in a men’s track & field competition for Lynchburg College running the mile and received hate mail saying God would strike her dead for it. “I learned a valuable lesson that day. I was being judged not on my athletic ability but on being a woman,” Switzer said of the experience. She later ran with the Syracuse men’s track team, but wasn’t allowed to compete. She did however, gain a running partner through the track team, an older gentlemen who managed the team. Even he didn’t believe she was capable of completing a marathon until he ran 31 miles with her (after which he passed out, and she caught him).

When she signed up for the race there were no regulations stating a woman couldn’t officially run in the Boston, but that was mostly because no woman was believed able to do it before. She went by K.V. Switzer and after sending in all of the entry forms and $3 fee, she stood at the starting line with her running partner, boyfriend, and part of the Syracuse men’s running team on race day. She was only 20-years-old.

Switzer was getting a lot of encouragement as she started out the race. Both spectators and participants were excited to see a woman running the marathon. She was running with all of the people she had come with, sticking together within the first few miles. Once they got to about mile four, a press truck drove up to take pictures of the runners, and when they realized Switzer was a woman (she had her hair down and lipstick on) all hell broke loose, essentially. On another vehicle following the press truck were the co-directors of the Boston Marathon, Will Cloney and Jock Semple. The journalists started heckling the directors, making fun of them for a girl infiltrating their race.

“Jock was well known for his violent temper. He seethed for awhile, and then he erupted. He jumped off the bus and went after me. I saw him just before he pounced, and let me tell you, I was scared to death. He was out of control. I jumped away from him as he grabbed for me, but he caught me by the shoulder and spun me around, and screamed, 'Get the hell out of my race and give me that race number.' I tried to get away from him but he had me by the shirt. It was like being in a bad dream. Arnie tried to wrestle Jock away from me but was having a hard time himself and then Tom, my 235-pound boyfriend came to the rescue and smacked Jock with a cross body block and Jock went flying through the air. At first, I thought we had killed him. I was stunned and didn't know what to do, but then Arnie just looked at me and said, 'Run like hell,' and I did as the photographers snapped away and the scribes recorded the event for posterity.”

These pictures bring tears to my eyes. What a badass! She was running a race no woman was believed to be able to finish, she was being chased-down by the director of the race, and she kept running. Granted, she was scared, and her boyfriend had to steamroll the guy, but that didn’t stop her. It makes me so proud.

I sometimes wonder if I would be able to do the same thing? She made history by running that race, but she could’ve stopped at those first four miles. If the director of a race yelled at me to leave, I don’t know what I would do. Would I keep running, or would I walk off the course feeling ashamed?

Switzer’s time was never recorded, even though she finished and had an official number. Some of the papers wrote that she never even finished. But what the papers wrote didn’t change what happened, and Switzer continued to run marathons. Her very act of running the marathon challenged “facts” about the physiology of the female body. Not only did she go on to win the 1974 New York City marathon, but she also helped make the women’s marathon part of the Olympics, as well as created Avon Running, a running program with events for women in 27 countries. She took her passion of running and turned it into another page in the history of women’s rights.

I want to embody not only a woman who is strong enough to undertake a race that is emblazoned in history as a true test of strength and mettle, but strong enough to keep after her dreams even after she’s told to stop—even yelled at, chased after, grabbed and commanded to stop.

I am utterly inspired by this woman, who at the mere age of 20 began a revolution spawned from the simple desire to run.

When I run the Avenue of the Giants this May, I’ll be sure to think of her. Regardless of how I do in the race, I’ll be thankful for the chance to try.

I once looked into the future over next 6 months or so, and I saw the fruits of my labor. I saw myself getting an invitation to the Peace Corps and flying to a new country where I would hopefully work on Spanish or possibly have to learn a new language, eat new foods, meet new people, struggle and defeat new challenges. Like I always do, I saw everything with rose-shaded glasses. I told myself I was being realistic, I told myself I was being rational, but in the end, I guess I wasn't. I was overly optimistic.

I haven't gotten so much as a "boo" from the Peace Corps in over a month. After missing my invitation, they said they were working on a new placement for me and I'd hear from them in a few weeks. It's definitely been more than a few weeks. However, that doesn't worry me.

What worried me, initially, was an email I received before the silence. An email that told me if I wasn't willing to go to any country they wanted me to, I should consider working with a different program. The email that told me regardless of my skill set, of what my recruiter told me, and how big the South American region is, they would not be sending me there. They wouldn't let me wait for another date, they wouldn't even consider it.

This email was prompted by an email I had sent them. I had talked with a Return Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) and they had given me some advice on how to make the most of my PC experience. He suggested I could in fact ask for what I wanted, it all came down to how I asked for it. After missing my invitation date to a Spanish speaking region, he suggested there were ways I could ask for another similar nomination. So I wrote an email describing my previous language experience, how I feel I will be most effectively used in Spanish regions, and how my time there will also help me with coming back to the US and working with Spanish speakers, which our country has more of now than ever. I wrote this all with an air of flexibility, stating my ability to work wherever needed, while showing skills that pointed me in an obvious direction. I let it sit for awhile, I let others read it, and I sent it.

Their response was less than desired, and somewhat chastising. "Now would be a good time to refresh yourself with the Peace Corps core values," they said in response to my "inflexibility." Ouch.

But it made me think; do I want to go with a different program? Throw away everything I've worked for and start all over again? I am volunteering two-years of my life to the government in hopes to help others, to gain experience, and test my skills. It felt like they just needed a warm body to fill a position, regardless.

Then the other day, I got a call from my mom telling me I should watch 20/20 that night. They were doing a piece on the Peace Corps.

The long and short of it is, they were bringing up the question, "Does the Peace Corps put it's volunteers in dangerous situations?"

If you've looked into the PC at all, they put a great deal of emphasis on safety. They only place people in countries that have a good standing with the PC and are accepting of volunteers. They always quote the statistic "98% of Peace Corps Volunteers feel safe to extremely safe in their host country."

The question of safety was brought up because of a murder of a PC volunteer--by her fellow PC co-worker from her host country, nonetheless. He was dating/raping/having children with multiple middle-school-aged girls in her classes, and she brought that to the attention of the Peace Corps, asking for anonymity in her identity. The man was fired, information was leaked, and he killed her in her sleep shortly thereafter.

Obviously, this is a terrible case that is not by any means the norm. However, 20/20 went further in depth concerning the safety of women volunteers. In the last decade, there have been over 1,000 reported rapes of volunteers in the PC. They brought on six women to tell their stories, along with how the PC dealt with support and help during their time of need.

One woman was gang raped, and leading up to her rape she was being stalked and harassed by the same group of men. She and other women on site asked for help and to be moved to a safer location, and PC refused. They sent a representative to the town to talk to the local police, and later that day she was attacked and drug in an alley, told she should have stayed quiet.

How did the Peace Corps handle this? First, when it was decided she would go back to D.C. for medical care, she was told she couldn't tell anyone what happened. She could only tell people she needed her wisdom teeth removed. Before she returned to her host country, the PC made her write a list of everything she did wrong to cause the attack so that it wouldn't happen again. She had to list "staying out too late" as a reason. She was attacked at 5:00 p.m.

The other women's stories didn't stray too far from this one. While the other interviewees hadn't been gang raped, support for them during the aftermath of their rape ranged from little to none. One woman was offered three counseling sessions, and that was it. Others weren't offered any. All women were told the rape was a result of their poor decisions. Decisions like, going out for dinner and a drink.

To read a little more about it and watch an interview of the girl who was gang-raped, click on this link, http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/peace-corps-gang-rape-volunteer-jess-smochek-us/story?id=12599341

Or, watch the full episode here, it starts about 9:45 minutes in with the story of Kate, the girl killed in her sleep.

http://abc.go.com/watch/2020-/SH559026/VD55106741/children-who-grow-up-to-kill

I understand that, sadly, there are inherent risks as a woman in any country, and that safe decisions should be made anywhere. I also understand the risk of sexual assault quite possibly is increased while in a country where women are not held in high esteem. Women are in much more danger than men anywhere. These are sad truths of our world.

However, I'm appalled that the organization, whose very name demonstrates humanitarian and peace efforts all over the world, should take such a low approach towards these volunteers in their very hour of need. These women dedicated their time and effort to help other countries in the name of ours. You could even say these women risked their lives for the PC effort, and they were given blame and isolation in return.

I had come to realize before this moment that the Peace Corps is not a perfect organization. It is too vast and policy ridden to run smoothly, and while good intentions and willing people are all working together, bureaucracy, cultural divides, and limited resources leave little room for a well-run system. It was understood that the experience I get out of the Peace Corps would be largely based on what I put in it. Honestly, it's still part of the appeal-- working and teaching in a different country with lots of free-range while roughing it and still accomplishing something worthwhile.

However, this whole situation was a low-blow to my psyche, and took my dream out at the knees. How can I stand behind an organization that doesn't take care of its women volunteers in a time of crisis? The Peace Corps can't guarantee anyone their safety anytime of day, but it does guarantee to take care of you. How can I volunteer two-years of my life to an organization knowing it would rather sweep rape under the rug than be associated with it? That in the terrible event I am raped, I would more likely get chastised than supported?

It makes me angry and sick. It makes me feel like I found out my hero and mentor uses crack and keeps bodies in their freezer. It doesn't change what I wanted to do with the Peace Corps, but it seriously makes me question whether this experience should be through the Peace Corps.

I know the Peace Corps has completely lost the faith of my parents, and many of the people who it took a long time to support my decision to join.

Justin said to me there had to be a way to have a similar experience but to be safer. And this made me even more sad, because I don't think there is. If the experience I'm looking for is living in a third-world country doing volunteer work, the dangers will always be there. While the dangers do make me uncomfortable, the danger increases ten-fold with the knowledge that I may not be helped if I ask for it. And if the Peace Corps can't help, really, who can?

It's all just falling apart around me. When I was in the thick of applying to the Peace Corps, I asked myself, "What kind of person would go through all of this and then quit? Decide to turn down an invite, or even go a few months in their host country and ask to be sent home?" I told myself I would not be one of those people.

Now, I don't know. I know many people have joined the Peace Corps in the last 50 years, and many have had amazing, life-altering experiences. Not every experience has to turn out like the women on 20/20 or the 1,000-plus who have been sexually assaulted/raped while serving. There's still a chance that I could have my Peace Corps experience. They may send me to a country where I don't know the language or even the alphabet, where I have to fetch my water from a river, bathe with a bucket, or eat rice everyday for two years, but I could still put all my heart into it and get everything out of it in return. The chance is not gone. But do I want to take that chance? Will the Peace Corps listen to my cries of help if I need it?

I believe everything happens for a reason. I was wondering what the reason was that I didn't make it to my first nomination to the Caribbean. Maybe this is it. Maybe I'll become one of those people that put all the time, effort, and thought into the grueling Peace Corps application, only to walk away in the end. In the name of women rights and my own personal safety, it would be in my own best interest to do something else. Maybe my dream wasn't meant to be anything more than a dream.

The Peace Corps needs to respond to the 20/20 episode, and it needs to make an effort. If they want to keep volunteers like me, they need to show they care.

A few weeks ago,  my plans for the near future were drastically altered.  In light of my Peace Corps invitation falling through and being postponed until late spring, I decided I needed a short term goal to work towards that would take up a lot of time and mental focus. So, I signed up for a marathon. 

I'm getting some mixed reviews on this decision. Mostly because I've never run a race longer than a five-miler, or run more than seven miles at once. And, I have less than five months to train. 

Some people wave their hand in the air and say, "Ah, you can do it, you'll be fine." Others bring up points such as, "Five miles isn't the same as 26," (a very valid point). Other's don't respond much at all.  Some people want to join me, some think I'm crazy, and most are supportive.

The decision wasn't impulsive, and I honestly don't feel I'm being that crazy. I put a lot of thought into it, and originally considered a half-marathon until my new running partner raised her fist and declared, "We will not do this half-way! We are going all the way!"

Had I known at the time she didn't actually know all that a marathon entailed, I might have reconsidered some things.

Me: Most people hit the wall around mile 20...JJ: Wait, wait, wait...how far are we running?Me: ...26.2 miles.JJ: All at once?!Me: ...Yes...what did you think a marathon was?JJ: I thought maybe we ran half and then stayed the night somewhere! Me: No!JJ: But, I get hungry!Me: That's why you eat gels, goo, or powerbars.JJ: Are we going to pee ourselves?

I've never been one of those people to say, "Go big or go home." I'm more of a, "do what feels right, and have no regrets," kind of person. Having JJ there to tell me, "we can do this!" (even if she didn't fully know what we were doing) made me realize that I actually could. I didn't have to do it halfway. Now that we both know what we're up against, we're training with running schedules  from the The Complete Book of Running for Women.  What we lack in experience we make up for with being well-read on the subject. We're registered to run the 40th annual Avenue of the Giants in the Humboldt Redwood State Park in sunny California on May 1st.  I'll be running 26.2 miles 27 days before I turn 25.  This task will be mentally and physically demanding, which is a challenge I am ready to take on, regardless of my running history.

People talk about how difficult a marathon is, and how it is a test of mind and body. I may not be the best runner, or run the longest distances, but anyone that runs understands pain. And anyone that's run in Challis, Idaho, my hometown, knows it well. 

Sometimes on the cold evenings in Corvallis when I go on runs, the brisk air stings my lungs and my mouth wells up with the taste of iron. My face is streamed with tears and my exercise-induced asthma flares up, but I haven't used an inhaler for eight years. And for once the western Oregon town that is a mere 235 feet above sea level reminds me of my time becoming a runner in the small, dusty, mile-high town of central Idaho. A place where every run hits lungs hard, brings the taste of blood to my tongue, and makes even the shortest mileage feel like an eternity. My days in high school track I was no stranger to constant cotton mouth, hoods tied tightly around my face, two to three layers of clothes feeling like mesh in the wind, and the occasional blizzard joining in on the workout. My head could sometimes be seen hung over the trash can, and there was always a stitch in my side. I hated running, but I felt sick to my stomach on the days I didn't run. 

I now know this to be what people call "addicted to running," or addicted to the endorphins running brings (don't worry, I may love the feeling, but I don't push myself over the edge). I've been an addict for 10 years and counting now. As I said, I may not be the best, and I may not run the furthest, but it's become a part of me, and I've come to terms with the pain. Running is pain, and running is freedom. The blood, sweat, and tears are reminders of my days growing up playing sports, of all the times I thought I couldn't take another step but did anyways, and of the cold winter runs I took with my dad along the river when I wondered why the hell I was even outside in the first place. At the time, running was a means to an end, and now it has become the means in which I hope to find health, clarity, and strength. 

This is all kind of scary, but I'm not going to run away from it, I'm going to run with it. And this isn't about placing or being the best, it's about finishing what I've started, one step at a time. 

I'm not leaving in January for the Peace Corps.

In all of my musings of how my future endeavors with the Peace Corps would go, I never practiced these words. I never imagined myself saying them out loud. And now I find myself having to say them repeatedly throughout the day; both for myself, and the many people I informed of my wishes to join the PC.

I imagined saying, "Unless you have a Christmas present that I can take with me, don't buy me anything-- I'm going to [insert Caribbean country] on January [insert date] to teach English to [insert age group] !!!"

I thought ahead of all the little things I would miss from my home country, home state, home town. I snuggled my pillow extra tight with the comforter pulled high around my face. I gave my boyfriend extra long hugs. My family made last minute arrangements to spend a holiday together for what may be out last for a long time.

And now, bureaucracy created a few hurdles I couldn't get over in time. The paperwork shuffle in the Peace Corps headquarters of D.C. didn't happen fast enough. While my medical files were sitting on someone's desk completely looked through and just waiting for the final "OK", all of the other people nominated for a position in the Caribbean who were qualified got invitations. I was medically qualified, and therefore eligible for the position, a week too late.

I was completely aware this might happen. I even warned those around me it might happen. But, it wasn't supposed to happen. I at least thought they would find a new placement for me in February, even March at the latest. However, all of those placements are filled with other hopeful nominees who applied at the same time as me (even sooner). Now I'm waiting for possible openings in April through June, with no promises I will have a region similar to my original nomination. You know what that means; Eastern Europe, Asia, and Africa are back on the table.

I know nothing was promised to me in the first place, that a placement in April or June doesn't mean the end of my dream, but just a longer time to get ready and enjoy all the things I knew I would miss. But it doesn't make the transition any easier. I was driving down the highway and the car got thrown in reverse. I had my life planned out for leaving sooner rather than later. So many things I didn't start because I thought I couldn't finish them. Hell, I hadn't even completely unpacked my things after moving in the new house because I thought I would only have to repack them within a month. I thought it would be harder to live life as usual only to find I had to pick up my life and go. I guess it's just hard no matter what.

But to answer a couple questions people have been asking me a lot:

I am not out of the Peace Corps, I just have to wait for a new placement. Since I am medically and legally cleared, I just have to keep them updated over the next couple months on any new happenings. I'll probably have to send in a new resume, and god forbid, I might have to get another physical exam.

I'm not giving up on the Peace Corps just because I have to wait. Some pretty incredible opportunities would have to come my way for me to consider giving up something I've worked so hard for.

And, I don't think the Peace Corps is a faulty, unorganized program. I've been told once on site, things flow pretty smoothly since I would be working more closely with program directors, etc. Getting through the application process and working through the D.C. office isn't going to be easy because, well, it's a government office. Things take time, there are thousands of applicants, there are policies to be followed, regulations and rules, and papers being passed from one person to another. It's not completely unfamiliar to me. I did work with the Forest Service, after all.

It's a bummer, and a big adjustment. Adventure, postponed. In the mean time, I'll just have to live life. Luckily, I've made some pretty cool friends in Corvallis and now I have more time to get to know them better. I get to spend more time with Justin, more time to visit loved ones. I have more time to do a lot of things. The hope is to train for a half/full marathon. I need a project with an end goal that I can do here and look forward to. I really wanted to run a big race before leaving for the Peace Corps, and that was something I was bummed I didn't do. Now I get the another chance to do that.

Like Mom always said, everything happens for a reason. It will be interesting to see what that reason is. In the meantime, I'll be here, living life.

On top of the Duomo overlooking Florence, Italy in January of 2008My heart is pounding, my legs aching, stomach churning, and my face is sticky with drying tears as I race along the corridor. Justin is in front of me, a backpacking bag on his back, backpack on his front, and two rolling-suitcases bumping along behind him. I, too, have a backpacking bag as well as backpack on the front, one roller-suitcase behind me. My feet pound on concrete and tile, fluorescent lights shine coldly on the sides of the corridor. I feel like I've been running for forever, like this is the hardest race I've ever run. But I can't stop. Not with two terminals to go. Not with my international flight to San Francisco leaving in 45 minutes.

We are in the Heathrow airport, and we have just finished two-weeks traveling through Italy and London. From here, we go our separate ways. He goes on to travel through Austria, Germany, and Switzerland before heading to South Africa for a year of studying engineering. I go back to the U.S. to continue my education in Boise.

We get to the ticket counter and they tell me I'm just in time; in five minutes they were going to start turning people away. However, I still have to get through security and to my gate. No time to waste.

We run around the corner and Justin is stopped by a man; passengers only beyond this point. I look at him with anguish as the dry tears are refreshed with new ones and I am dwindled to a sobbing, sniffling mess. We hug, I shake, we whisper into each others' ears, and we kiss one last time as I smear tears and snot all over both our faces. I was given two minutes to say goodbye to someone who would be gone a year. I had no idea when I would be able to kiss and hold the person I have loved more than anyone again, and it scared me. We let go and he stood and watched as I went through security, and waved with his entire arm as I had no choice but to continue on as fast as I could to find my departing gate.

Fast forward six months.

It is June, but it's hovering around 55 to 60 degrees outside, and the sun sits low in the sky readying to set as it has been at 6:00 P.M.. It is winter in South Africa, after all. I'm sitting in a tiny Volkswagen Rabbit, the car Justin rented for my visit, and I have hardly gotten used to the passenger seat on the left side of the vehicle. We are parked in the parking lot of the Cape Town Airport, and we are sitting in silence holding hands. The half-hour car ride from Stellenbosch was pretty quiet. I try to make a joke or say something light-hearted, and Justin is silent, turned away. "Hello? Are you going to say anything?" He turns and looks at me and tears are running down his face into his beard.

By the grace of my parents, they granted me an early graduation present-- a plane ticket to visit Justin. Before I left on my 36-hour trek to see him, we had spent six-months communicating via Skype, which meant grainy internet video with echoing robotic feedback, and specific hours for talking due to time differences. They were late night chats for me, early morning for him.

While the trip hadn't been all sunshine and roses (Justin was very sick while I was there, and I also invaded his tiny space), it had been two-weeks of adventure. Justin drove me through wine country, taught me how to rock climb, and we hiked through mountains and stood where the Indian Ocean crashed into the Atlantic. We let our hearts soften just enough to get used to the others company again, only to be ripped apart once more.

In the airport we stand once more at the axis that will separate us for an undetermined amount of time. The security is in front of us, only this time I don't have to run to catch the plane, I'm not running out of time for a goodbye. We have a half-hour to sit and stare at eachother, miserably counting down the minutes to our separation. The wait is worse than when we had no time to say goodbye at all.

"Someday, we won't have to do this anymore," I say. "There will be no more goodbyes."

On the airplane I look back at the building I just left Justin in, and I see a figure jumping frantically in the window. It's like a black stick figure, jumping like crazy and waving its arms all over the place. I realize it's my black stick figure, my boyfriend, and I wave out the small airplane window wondering if he can see me waving at all.

We have had more goodbyes since then. We said goodbye in the Boise Airport as I left for Spain for five months, after he'd only been back from South Africa for three weeks. We've spent weeks apart during work and study before living together. For the last year we've been lucky enough to only have to say goodbye for weekends apart or in the morning as we run to our respective duties. For a long time it was strange to say stuff like, "See you later this afternoon."

Some people look at us as this "power couple". To them we have this unbreakable bond of commitment that is so strong it's crossed the Atlantic--twice-- and held steadfast. I have been told how miraculous it is we are still together. Well, it is a miracle, because it was not easy.

A lot went into keeping us together. Stubbornness, mostly. Neither of us was willing to let go until we felt it was the right thing to do, and so far we haven't felt that way. But aside from that, a lot of our relationship could be understood in these goodbyes. We were saying goodbye over and over again for long periods of time, cursing the distance between us, aching for normalcy and the day when it would end. At the same time we knew we had to say goodbye because we were meant to do something else with our lives that the other person couldn't join us for. And that was okay. Because if we didn't separate for these vast amounts of time, we wouldn't have accomplished our personal goals. We wouldn't be who we are today. And honestly, I don't think we would have been able to look at the other person without resenting them for taking that away. We allowed eachother to do what we had to do, and I love Justin even more for it. Each goodbye was punctuated with a promise for a future together, and expressed with only the kind of love that will let you go because it trusts you will return.

This doesn't mean that the upcoming goodbye won't be just as painful-- don't think that for a minute. It is looming over my head, closing its cold grip on my stomach, and haunting my thoughts every spare, silent moment. What we've been through before will be chump change compared to this. A 27 month commitment in another country means a 27 month commitment overseas to the person I love back home. It's 20 more months than the longest time we spent apart. It is also far more likely that I won't have Skype, internet, or reliable mail. It is the scariest goodbye I will have to say to date.

I am so excited about the opportunity to join the Peace Corps, it probably sounds like leaving Justin behind is the last thing on my mind. That couldn't be further from the truth. It is one of the first things on my mind, which is why I don't talk about it. If I discussed it often, I would always be talking about the scariest part of leaving. Justin is so supportive, he is only positive about my steps towards joining the Peace Corps. To openly discuss how afraid I am to say goodbye would only rip the courage out from under my feet. We aren't in a relationship to dash eachothers' dreams, we want to foster and encourage them.

We aren't a super couple with magical commitment powers, and we aren't any stronger than anyone else. We just know goodbye isn't forever, and the power behind letting the person you love do what makes them happy. Sometimes that means going out on a limb and taking a big risk. Sometimes that means doing the scariest thing you could imagine. Isn't that what love is?

Early autumn in McDonald Forest, Corvallis, Oregon. These trees are now bare.

"Planning your future can feel like a task that's hard to get your arms around -- after all, how can you look into the future with any sort of certainty? Things are in a constant state of flux -- especially now -- so you'll feel less frustrated if you just let life go on as it is for a little while longer. There's no need to pin down every little goal you have. There is a real mystery in your future, and you should see it as a very exhilarating thing."

This was my horoscope last week. Fitting, as I was struggling with a major roadblock presented to me by the Peace Corps. I was holding off on telling people, but now is as good a time as ever; I may not be leaving in January for my original nomination, and it's all because of paper-pushing in the D.C. office.

Let me give you a breakdown of what's going on. See, when you're nominated for a position (I was nominated for the Caribbean to teach English, leaving in early January) it's more like someone is applying for a job on your behalf. Then, the placement office in that country reviews your application and if they like you, the invite you. However, you can't be eligible to be reviewed for said job until you are medically cleared. This is the process I am stuck in.

The Peace Corps asked me for additional medical information (three weeks after I handed in an inch-thick pile of medical history, blood tests, immunizations, and everything else imaginable), which pushed back my medical clearance a few weeks. This wouldn't be a big deal if I had a later departure date, however I am in the exact time frame that the placement office is looking at people for the job I was nominated for. So, in other words, if I'm not medically cleared, then I'm not eligible, and therefore I'm not going to be selected.

This isn't for certain, yet. I still have a small window of opportunity as long as the Peace Corps gets on top of the paperwork and finishes it in time. Not promising, but there's still hope. And even if I don't get selected for my first nomination, it doesn't mean I'm out of the game. It just means I have to wait for another nomination, and go from there. "It's not the end of the world," my recruiter said. And it's not. It just means my life is in even more limbo, and my future is quite the mystery.

While this is completely out of my hands and all I can do is wait and hope and be OK with whatever outcome I get, it doesn't mean I don't have a degree of control. I am in control of how handle the news, I am in control of how I live my daily life, which means I am in control of everything important.

Even with all the uncertainty, I've been trying to spend my time as I would if I knew I was leaving in seven to eight weeks. It makes life a lot more interesting.

This fall has been the most beautiful, wonderful fall, and a lot of it has to do with the fact that it may be my last for awhile. The Caribbean doesn't really have fall, they have monsoon season and not-monsoon season. So every cold rainy day just makes me appreciate my warm jacket and cozy house. Every dark foggy morning I ride my bike to work is another morning I may not have again for awhile. And while I'm not snow's number-one fan, I am wishing I could have some of that, too. Lord knows I may not see it for a long time.

Whenever I tell people I've been nominated to the Caribbean, they act like I've been given the easiest job ever; "two-year vacation" has been the phrase I've heard the most. But if I end up there, I won't be on vacation. I'll be working, I'll be living in a community-- not a resort-- and I'll be paid just enough money to live at the same economic level as my neighbors. Yes, the Caribbean is tropical and beautiful, but how many Pacific Northwest residents have lived in a tropical area? I have, and I'll tell you what, there are scorpions, spiders, and other creepy-crawly things you've never imagined before bigger than your face. It is a completely different climate and ecosystem with its own natural, and man-made, risks and dangers.

This isn't to say I'm not excited, it just means I am thankful for what I have now and I know wherever I end up won't be a cake-walk. My life will not be a vacation. It's the Peace Corps, and even those who make it through the grueling application process still have a high drop-out rate before their commitment time is through. It wasn't meant to be easy.

So, even prior to the "thankful" season, I have been living day-to-day thankful for so many things. For my comfy bed, for my running water, for my beautiful home, my health, electricity, my cuddly kitty, my supportive family and friends, and the technology each of us possess in our very own homes that other countries don't even have in their businesses. I'm thankful for my youth, and I'm thankful that the Peace Corps is opening up so many options for my future. Even if the details are uncertain right now, it is certain opportunities are coming my way.

Although I am often impatient, I can live with the mystery a little bit longer. Besides, who's to say that each of our futures isn't a mystery? Tomorrow isn't guaranteed, and you never know when it could be your last fall day, last dark, foggy morning, or last night sleeping in a warm comfy bed.

I have 17 minutes until I have to be working. I'm actually at my work right now, but I just wanted a quick word:

I totally risked my co-workers seeing me take this picture. Probably why I look so psychotic.

Since I have such a short amount of time to write this, it's not going to be pretty (just like the picture) so bare with me!

I live in a new house! It's amazing and beautiful and I love it. But God has a sense of humor, because there's just one hitch in living there...I am DONE with my Peace Corps medical exams! But not really. I am done being on the phone hours everyday trying to make appointments, find places that won't charge me with my first born (since I don't have health insurance), getting my arm stuck with needles for tests, getting fingers and scopes put everywhere. However, I'm still waiting for the paperwork to be finished (ie, blood test results listed, etc) so that I can send them.On a related topic, I learned a new phrase today that I didn't know. Grease the palm. I know, I'm an idiot for not knowing this (what kind of English Major am I?) but I have never been told to grease the palm and not have my mind immediately go in the gutter. But my co-worker told me if I wanted my medical exam paperwork back from the hospital faster, I need the grease the palm and maybe negotiate a little. Seriously, do people bribe hospitals?

Because of the above, I am completely naive and innocent, which both makes me endearing and slightly pathetic.I am a volunteer now! I am a conversation partner with international students at Oregon State University. Which means, I converse with them. That's it. You know, it's really fun, and it makes me feel really good. I think I could go two-years feeling like that.I love my co-workers. Seriously, they rock. And Interzone (where I work) is soon to have a blog dedicated to it, because it deserves some time in the limelight.

Okay, my 17 minutes aren't up, but I really should get to work. Even though I think all of the shmucks I work with wouldn't care. (And I say shmuck in the most loving of way).

August sky from the front porch of my house in Challis, Idaho

Sometimes I miss high school crushes; my heart racing at a glance. Unintelligible fits of giggles rising from my stomach and pouring out of my mouth. Feet floating like feathers, but eventually crashing from the overly drawn-out, dreamt-up heights. Love was not a tree, rooting deeper and growing stronger with time. It was a comet, bright and powerful—one I thought would last through the millenniums.

I think of the nights I spent staring into the clear night sky, the vast amount of stars hanging overhead—infinity spread out with an unmatchable palette. The whole world laid under one blanket, but I had no knowledge that I would miss this one spot the most.

That feeling of not knowing, but sensing something so big and incomprehensible sitting on the other side of the mountains. Like a sleeping giant, it laid just under the surface waiting to be woken from its slumber. What was waiting for me outside of the valley walls? How far could I follow the sun before I ended up back where I began?

Emotion dripped from everything I touched. Creativity and restlessness outlined every scrap of paper within reach and manifested in doodles and poems. Homework was only a means to an end, because deep down I knew my education rested in the hands of the world and school was just the vessel to deliver me there.

In those years I heard the word “success” often, and “potential” became a common identifier.

“You’re really going to do great things with your life.”

“You’re going places.”

“You’re going to be great.”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was because I saw the world through such rosy glasses that people said this. They saw that pessimism had yet to get its grip. Optimism and wonder were my confidants. It wasn’t that I was especially talented, or that I was privileged. It was my small town naivety mixed with an adventurous soul. It was my glass-half-full musings that I wondered out loud.

I was gregarious, but I was timid. I wanted to conquer the world, but didn’t know how. I was a teenager.

These people saw someone who hadn’t been told they couldn’t yet, and told them they could. They wanted to banish the timid, and plant a seed for the future when pessimism and hatred would eventually break down the walls of the small valley. They wanted to dig deep in the heart of a teenager, the face of the future. Because talent will only get you so far, but heart will get you all the way.

Today my determination and will have grown strong like a tree planted long ago. The roots dig deep, and the boughs reach high. I am sometimes subdued, feel small, and lose my way-- but never for long. I was built strong, fashioned for work others weren’t meant to bear. I was built by those around me.

But sometimes I still miss the feeling of a high school crush…feet floating.

The feeling of not knowing--

Of something waiting just on the other side of the mountains.

I love cats. Kitties, kittens, cats. I love the word "meow." Now, not an Austin Powers-esque meow (me-YOW baby, yeah!), just meow. I dream about cats on a weekly basis, and in my dreams, children/babies are interchangeable with kittens. For example, I frequently dream of being pregnant and giving birth to a kitten, or saving kittens from peril, which later turn into children. Do not confuse this for bragging, I'm just letting y'all know, I'm a crazy-cat lady.

So it should come as no surprise that I take my cat to a veterinary that is cat specific; a place called Cat Care. Now, even this place makes my crazy-cat-lady ways appear mild in comparison. They make you feel special because you care about your cat enough to take her to a specialized clinic, but at the same time like an abusive and neglectful owner for not meeting every single one of kitty's needs.

Me: My cat has been puking hairballs excessively lately.

Vet tech: Well, do you brush her twice a day?

Me: ...No...

VT: Do you at least give her laxatone?

Me: Uh...I'm not sure I know what that is...

VT: *long sigh*

Today I took my Shmoo to the vet because she hasn't been feeling well lately. Usually at Cat Care, I find myself surrounded by fellow crazy-cat ladies, but today the vet assistant was a dude. Or should I say, Male Cat-Nurse. I was trying to get a read on him-- was he just a man who loved cats? Or was this the gig he landed while looking for places to intern or do residency work? My question was quickly answered as I saw him recoil at one of Shmoo's bluffing hisses. She hates the vet (as any cat would) and likes to make a big show of how pissed off she is and will not be calmed by soothing sprays or low lighting. However, the Male Cat-Nurse was so nervous he actually considered not completing her initial exam.

"Maybe I won't take her temperature..." he said, eyeing her stiff body as she let out a low growl.

"Ah, she'll be fine! Just go for it, she's done it before."

He reached for the thermometer and Shmoo hissed at him, trying to move her butt away.

"Don't worry, she doesn't scratch," I reassured him. "She's not like that. Maybe if we're playing she'll accidentally scratch, but she immediately realizes what she's done and is like, 'Oh I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to!'"

"How nice of her..." He said this like one would tell a child it was nice of their imaginary friend to give them an imaginary cookie.

That's when I realized how crazy I sounded. I had just told the Male Cat-Nurse that my cat apologizes to me when she accidentally scratches (which truly is a rare occasion).

After he left to get the veterinarian, I continued to talk to Shmoo calling her all her pet names (yes, I have pet names for my cat that are even more cutesie than Shmoo) and singing the Beatles to her (which she loves).

Maybe I project feelings on my cat; feelings like wanderlust, remorse, and loneliness. Sure, Justin and I spend a great deal of time "talking" for Shmoo, discussing what's on her mind, what she's sees when she looks at us, how she feels about current events. But I have never felt dumb for it, neither have I felt crazy. And, I never thought the day would come when I felt crazy at Crazy-Cat-Care-Lady central.

But ya know what? Screw the Male Cat-Nurse! I am not the craziest-cat lady on the block, and if dude is going to work at a cat specific vet, dude should get used to cats hissing at him. He's got plenty more cat buttholes to put thermometers in, and maybe that isn't what he envisioned himself doing in vet school, but it's part of the job.

I'm not going to feel bad for loving my cat, and making her a part of my life. At the same time, I'm not going to spend my life savings giving her every test and medicine on the market. Just like people can go overboard with doctors for themselves, cats can be equally over-medicated and tested. I love cats, and I love Shmoo more than I've loved many pets growing up, but there has to be a balance between neglect and neurosis.

Take care of your pets, don't personify them.

And now, pictures of Shmoo, Shmoopin' Poopin' Schloppin' Gloppin, Kitty Shmitty, Shmoppin' Mop.

Myself, somewhere around 3-years-old in Bly, ORWhen life is good, life is great. My life has taken some big steps in the right direction lately, and I couldn't be happier. A lot of different ventures in my life have recently come to one juncture, and the bigger picture has finally come into view.

There were some things in my life that caused much stress, took away my sleep, and increased irritability in my everyday. And now, they are finally resolving splendidly. In no particular order, they were: moving back to Boise, joining the Peace Corps, and finding a house to live in with Justin and another person (all of which, in an odd way, are creations/circumstances of one another).

I haven't fully discussed this, but feel it is understood, I am not moving back to Boise and am staying in Corvallis. I feel I am gaining a solid enough foundation here that for the time being, I can get along here quite well. I will of course miss my friends in Boise, but right now it makes more sense for me to stay.

Partially because I have been nominated for the Peace Corps (!!!!) and if I am invited, I leave in four months. My nomination is to teach English in the Caribbean, and the assignment begins in early January. I have all the resources I need here to strengthen my resume for the PC before I leave (like volunteer to teach/tutor English) and I have a pretty kick-ass job which has introduced me to some pretty kick-ass people.

But since I am staying, and at the same time soon-to-be-leaving, Justin and I were searching for a house to live in with one of his friends so that when I do leave he has somewhere solid to stay and someone to share rent with.

These things were all very stressful. Oh how they ate at me day and night. But one by one they slowly came together.

Just so everyone understands, I know I create a lot of stress on my own. The thing is, I have a tendency to put all of my eggs in one basket, which can be pretty scary. However, I do not often pursue half-hearted ventures. I don't often begin something I am not certain about. And I have to say, odds are my basket makes it home unscathed. I choose these singular things because I know they are right. Like when I applied at Interzone out of all the other coffee shops, because I could only pictures myself there. They turned me down. I was disappointed because I was so certain they would hire me. And then they did, a month-and-a-half later.

Sometimes outside forces tell me "No way that's going to work," and maybe I end up doubting and second guessing myself. But in the end, my gut is right. I put all of my eggs in specific baskets because those baskets were meant for me. They usually just don't work on my time-line (which is right now, damnit!).

The house Justin and I are now going to be moving into (which is the absolute cutest most adorable and amazing little house ever that has a yard and a porch and hardwood floors and is two-blocks from the co-op and super reasonably priced and ohmigod I am in love with it!) was seriously meant to be. I'm not even joking. Before I even saw it or knew where it was or anything, I just knew. And it was so serendipitous how we found out about it (it's a long story, just trust me on it). When Justin and I stepped in it for the first time to look at it, my stomach ached. That is the only way I can explain it, it just ached. I could hardly breathe. We were really worried for awhile we wouldn't get it. We had competition and the landlord was uncertain about renting to college students or having three people living in the house. But now we have the rental agreement and we gave our apartments our 30 day notice. We didn't even look at other houses, this is how much we loved and wanted this place.

The Peace Corps...I always knew I was meant for this. But I will admit, I let outside forces convince me I would not go to a Spanish speaking country. Every bit of information I found kept pointing to me going anywhere but a Spanish speaking country. My recruiter even told me I probably wouldn't. It took me a long time to come to terms with that, because for so long I saw myself in Latin America. I was really bummed, but I looked at the positives of going to a new region and learning a new language and I tried to get over it. I even had a friend tell me he was certain I would be sent to a Spanish speaking country and I denied it up and down (last time I nay-say you, Lee!) But here I am, and I couldn't be happier with my nomination. (And by the way, as far as I know there is only one Spanish speaking country in the Caribbean that Peace Corps sends volunteers to, the Dominican Republic!)

The funny thing is, I was given both my nomination and the rental agreement to the house within the same hour. Coincidence?

Right now, I am trying to keep my wits about me with the nomination for the Caribbean. It is still quite possible that I won't be sent there. Whatever happens, I am again reminded that life works out as it should. When you have good intentions in heart and mind, things flow in that direction. Sometimes outcomes are uncertain and shaky, frustrating, tiring, disappointing, and unwanted. But when given time, maybe it's exactly what's needed. Que sera sera, whatever will be will be. (As I said, when life is good, life is great, and you can tell by my optimism!)

I went on a run alone tonight (before anyone freaks out I was on well-lit streets with glowing reflectors on and I told Justin my general route and expected return time) and I was thinking about how when I follow my gut, even though it's scary, and even though I take big risks by putting all my eggs in one basket, things always work out the way they should. It's hard sometimes to tune the frequency to that inner voice through all the outside noise. That inner voice, many times, is all you need to hear. When my inner voice finally rings through, it's like I can do no wrong.

As I ran through the streets of Corvallis and all of these events were running through my head and I thought about destiny, intuition, and the big changes in my life, I decided to run by the house we are moving into. I came to the street we will soon be living on and looked at the house thinking "you will be mine!" when I realized my ipod had started playing "We Belong" by Pat Benatar.

I told you, it was meant to be.

Pat Benatar - We Belong

Uploaded by valentin73. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.

A few weeks ago, I went on a Deschutes River trip with Justin and his family. Six of us geared up for the two-day river trip. There were a lot of firsts on this river trip; for me it was the first time rafting an Oregon river, for others the first time rafting. There were expected obstacles and unknown ones, both within the rapids of the river and the group of people rafting. But one "first" from this river trip made the record books, and it all started when we ended up camping next to the worst kind of people.

At the end of our first long day, we were beat. We had gotten on the river later than expected and came up against heavy winds. Although we hadn't made the miles we had wanted to, we pulled over to a campsite and called it a day, setting up camp and almost losing our stuff to the wind.

Kitchen was set up, snacks consumed, and we began setting up our personal tents. Our camp was situated on a bend in the river, immediately after a rapid that hugs a cliff across the way from us. We heard the hooting and hollering of people rounding the corner as they rowed away from the cliff to keep from high-siding their boat. And then they just kept on rowing.

Two more boats rounded the corner, and they, too, started rowing to shore. This time, girls in scandalous bikinis and a blow up palm tree were visible.

"They're rowing to shore, what are we going to do?" I asked.

Justin looked at the group, muttered under his breath and sighed.

"We do nothing. There are two campsites here, they're allowed to camp next to us."

This was a new thing for me. I have gone on Middle Fork of the Salmon River trips where not only do you choose your campsites before you go down the river, but campsites that are "shared" usually have quite a bit of distance between the two. These people were right on top of us, and even tried to walk right through our campsite. Justin stopped them, telling them we were in our campsite and they needed to stay within theirs.

More and more boats started coming to shore, and the people that exited could only be described as "dude bro's" and "soro-stitutes"-- most likely creations of the Greek System. And although these people looked like they were getting ready to celebrate their 10 year college reunion, they seemed to have held onto every shred of that glorious time in their life.

As the last of the boats pulled to shore we could hear music a la Party Boy (if you need an example of what I'm talking about, click here, listen, shudder, then come back to read the rest)

and the random "Woo!" from various people in the group-- because every instance in life requires a good hoot. However, they were also a good 10-sheets to the wind.

Aside from the instant and obvious reasons we weren't happy they were camped next to us, they also had something else going against them-- there were 31 of them. Did I mention we are on a Wild and Scenic River? And that the regulations of the river say no more than 16 people per group? They were almost double the allotted amount. And they were sharing space with us.

Not soon after they came barreling on shore with their terrible incessant music and obvious refusal to the reality they aren't 21 anymore, Justin came walking over to tell me, "Well, I have the first thing we can use against them when we complain. One of the blond girls just peed in our kitchen."

Instant hatred. That and complete shock are the only ways I could describe my feelings towards these idiot teenagers trapped in adults bodies. I don't mean to get all Forest Service Ranger on here, but seriously-- NO PEEING IN THE CAMPSITE! There wasn't even a good reason for peeing in our kitchen. There were compost toilets at every campsite on the river; one of the nicest forms of outhouse you could use. And instead the girl decided to go behind a bush that, whad'yaknow, had coolers and a table next to it.

I wanted to talk to them about it, but was advised not to. What good would it do talking to drunk people?

We continued on with our night trying to ignore the party that surrounded us (there was no room left on their side of the campsite, so some of them had to camp right above us on our side) and made a delicious dinner of halibut, mashed potatoes, and corn. We were thankful that their music wasn't too loud and that the wind drowned out their "Woo!'s".

And then, we heard a round of gunshots in the distance. Round after round of shooting, and it echoed off the canyon walls. Ranger moment number #3: firearm use on the river is restricted to SELF-DEFENSE ONLY. No hunting or recreational shooting.

By now, my already tense feelings towards this group had amplified. Why are these people on the river? Why are they camping and spending their weekend in a Wild and Scenic area? If you want to have a dance party and shoot guns, this is not the place. It never will be the place.

It was barely past nine o'clock when we all felt like we couldn't stay up any longer. We had exerted a lot of energy that day, and the next would only be harder. So we picked up our stray belongings and got camp ready for the night and retired to our tents. By this time I had tried to get over the voices floating our direction and the dance music circa 2002.

I was just getting settled in and enjoying some much needed snuggle time with Justin when the inside of my eyelids glowed brightly and a loud crack rang through the air. I opened my eyes and the inside of our tent shone red and white and loud pops and cracks went off. They had shot off fireworks. Big fireworks. You have to understand, fireworks aren't just illegal on the river, you're not even allowed to smoke unless you're standing in the river. You're not allowed to have a campfire. In other words; flammable things are prohibited.

And with the fireworks, I lost it. Completely and utterly lost it. I climbed over Justin and crawled out of the tent just in time to hear the perpetrator tell someone, "Dude, chill out!" and a response of, "You idiot, you can't shoot fireworks!" And then I chimed in--

Now, I don't exactly remember what I said. I was seeing red, I was light headed with anger, and my whole body just pulsed with adrenaline. But, as far as I recall, I said something along the lines of this:

"YOU STUPID F&%#ING PIECES OF SH#%!! WHAT THE F%#$ ARE YOU THINKING? YOU CAN'T F&#$ING SHOOT OFF FIREWORKS! YOU STUPID PIECES OF SH#@!"

This went on a little longer, followed by a low and sheepish, "..sorry...." from the direction the fireworks came from.

"F*&# YOU!" I screamed in return, and continued on with my diatribe. I know I said the words "inconsiderate" and "irresponsible" in there too, somewhere between all the F-bombs and other swear words.

And then I guess when I felt my lungs were sufficiently tired, and all the blood vessels in my eyeballs were popped from complete rage, I got back in the tent with Justin and rocked back and forth while hugging my knees, the adrenaline still pumping and shaking my body.

I could hear them mocking me outside saying, "pieces of shit," and "so inconsiderate," like I was so incredibly uncool and out of touch. I wanted them to die a thousand deaths and get eaten by birds and then shit back out on a heaping pile of garbage that was the only legacy they left behind in their pathetically ignorant lives. But in reality, I know these things would not make me feel better and wouldn't be good for my psyche. So instead I prayed that the river gods smite them, and that karma kicked their asses into next year.

Maybe a better man would've let it go. A better man would've kept quiet and known to pick his battles. But I'm not a better man-- I was a freakin' pissed off woman with a voice and lungs that can carry for miles.

Justin chastised me for trying to talk to drunk people and said that we would simply complain and it would be dealt with. But I knew it wouldn't be that easy. Having previously worked on a Wild and Scenic river, as well as having any complaint with the sheriff's office, I knew proof was the only thing that got people in trouble. And where was our proof? Six people may all have the same story, but unless one of us was an officer or we had taken pictures, there was no hope to get these assholes in trouble. They were the worst type of people, and they were probably going to get away with it.

The next morning we woke with the sun and tried to wrap up camp as soon as possible. We didn't want to have to spend anymore time with the junk show next to us than we had to. Some of them were already awake when we were, even though they partied well into the early hours of morning. By 8 am we were listening to Kylie Monogue, and everyone was up.

Because the compost toilet was on the assholes' side of the campsite, we had to cross into their territory to go to the bathroom. We decided we had strength in numbers and had been going in groups. On our walk we saw cups and beer cans lying on the ground, and then right next to the compost toilet, a large garbage bag full of trash just sitting there. Do I even need to state the law they're breaking here? Pack out what you pack in, dumbasses.

We decided if we were going to have any leverage complaining about them, we needed pictures. Justin's sister took pictures of a box of fireworks they left on the ground, and I tried taking pictures of them on shore as we rowed away. I couldn't get everyone in the picture, but I got around 26, which is more than enough to get them in trouble.

We went down river, still with angst running through our veins. Justin's dad told us to shake it off and continue on with the lovely day; they can't ruin everything for us.

Halfway through our day, we came across a sheriff and some BLM officers on the side of the river, and they waved us to eddy out and talk to them. A fire downstream had gotten stronger and they were using helicopters to pick up water out of the river, so they were grouping boaters together before they continued on. We took the time to tell one officer about our evening with Yahoo's and their ridiculous escapades.

The officer said little, but finally offered, "We actually have already been looking into them. We've gotten other complaints."

We told them I had pictures on my camera, and they directed me to the officer's vehicle. As I was getting ready to walk towards it, guess who joined us? The entire crew of jackasses floated down, scantily clad, barely a body with a lifejacket on. It was almost too good to be true!

I got to the officer's truck and handed him my camera. He didn't have a similar hook-up, but he at least looked at my pictures. He had a laptop in the cab of the truck that he was viewing other pictures of the group. Apparently the BLM river patrol had gone down and actually seen them doing stupid stuff. At one point they were fishing off their boats (illegal) and then--probably the absolute worst thing they did the whole time--they shot at osprey from their boats.

Do I even need to express my horror and shock? First of all, recreational shooting/hunting is illegal, we've covered that. But osprey?? Osprey are raptors, and it's illegal to shoot raptors. Osprey are also endangered species! That is prison time right there.

Apparently, the BLM river patrol not only saw this, but they happened to camp close enough that they heard the fireworks and even knew we were camped next to them.

Hallelujah, Amen, those fu&*ers are getting in trouble! Back at the boats Justin's family heard the officers asking the boaters, "Do you have any firearms on board?" They all denied it, but the officers response was, "Really? Because we have pictures of you with firearms."

Sweet justice! Beautiful retribution! The worst kind of people on the river were caught, and if there really is a God, they got their just deserts.

One thing that left us in awe of the whole situation (aside from them being the most absolute ignorant pieces of crap ever) is how they made it down the river alive. They were boating on a constant buzz, and there are rapids that you have to scout and be ready for. Half of them didn't have proper clothing, camping gear, anything. Someone on the trip had to know what they were doing...

...and I saw who it was. A person I have seen many times in my years working on the Middle Fork. The second I saw him, I knew, and I seethed at the thought of what he might have gotten away with on a river I prize above many things. I hope he has deep shame and understanding of what kind of bad karma he has brought on his life. You can only treat mother nature like shit for so long until the shit storms comes back to hit you. And buddy, it's going to hit hard.

JFK started the Peace Corps in 1961. Here he shakes the hands of some of the first volunteers.

It is difficult to walk up the stairs to the third floor, because for the first time in a long time I am wearing healed wedges and a pencil skirt. I’m not going to lie, I look great in them, but I’m afraid I’m about to do a face-plant up the stairs. The cute blonde secretary from the front desk is showing me to the room I’m looking for, and makes small talk with me as we walk, which helps take my mind off everything. Once we find the door she turns to me and says, “Good luck,” and walks away.

I open the door to a conference room with a table long enough to fit 15 people without anyone touching elbows. Immediately across the table from the door sits a petite woman in her early thirties with a laptop in front of her. She has a striking beauty with darker hair and complexion that contrasts her light hazel eyes. She is much more intimidating in person than she is on the phone.

“Hello, Amanda. I’m Melissa, nice to meet you,” she stands up to shake my hand, proving that even standing she is a small person. “I told them I didn’t need a room this big, but it will work.”

Maybe she’s not that intimidating. Maybe I’m just intimidated.

I settle into the seat across from her and reach for my pen and pad of paper. I can barely get them out of my purse and on the table before she begins: “Alright, I’m just going to start and get it out there. Why do you want to join the Peace Corps?”

This is the question I had spent the entire drive to Salem trying to rehearse out loud. It was incredibly difficult to verbalize my answer. How do I explain to someone what I just know to be right? How do I verbalize in a short precise answer all of the events of my past and present that have led me to this moment where this drastic step is not so drastic? Like when I tell family and friends my decision to join the Peace Corps and they say, “That sounds perfect for you,” because this decision is such a natural progression of my life. How do I sum up that when I am older I want to look back and have the Peace Corps as my past?

“Because I believe everyone has a path; a future created by their past and present, and the Peace Corps is part of my path. If I don’t make it into the Peace Corps, I’m going to do something just like it because that’s who I am.”

***

Of course I said more than that, but I felt like I couldn’t have a cut and dry answer that didn’t involve getting into my deep feelings of destiny.

I met the recruiter in Salem because she is interviewing multiple people in Oregon right now. The regional office is actually in Seattle, so I was lucky to get an in-person interview as opposed to over the phone. The interview was intense, and anything you would expect from a government organization that is considering investing thousands of dollars in training, funding, and supplementing work for an individual for two years. It was over an hour, and there were the stock questions about my leadership skills and ability to work with little supervision, which I'm used to having to discuss in any interview. The other however, were all questions concerning my ability to adapt to different cultures and work situations, as well as my ability to live in impoverished areas. But it was so much more than that. For instance, I was asked how I would handle living in a village where not only am I the only American, but the only white person. I was asked how I would handle gender roles in other countries where maybe I'm required to wear a head covering or long skirts (no pants), or watch the13-year-old girl in my host family being married off. How would I handle always having people peeking in my windows just to see what I'm doing, because I will be the most interesting and odd person/thing in the whole town? Or neighbors who already know what I bought at the market (because news travels fast) and by the way, could they borrow a loaf of bread?

Each answer I gave she furiously typed away at her laptop, making note of everything I said. On occasion she would nod her head in what seemed to be either agreement or an involuntary movement associated with a good answer.

So many aspects of the interview seemed intimidating and beyond anything I’ve ever done before (as my small sample of questions revealed), but I never once felt like I was in over my head. I have felt far more nervous in interviews in the past.

After all of the questions grilling me on how I would handle not having running water, traveling a day to use a phone, or being placed in a country that not only has a different language, but a different alphabet, she asked one last question: “When can you leave?”

“As soon as possible,” I responded.

After all that I finally got to ask some questions. The one at the forefront of my mind, "Where would I be sent?" couldn't really be asked. So I asked, "What countries are accepting the most volunteers right now?"

Her answer: Eastern Europe, Southeastern Asia, and Asia are in a great demand for English language teachers. Although 40% of volunteers go to Sub-Saharan Africa, the aforementioned regions have a huge demand right now.

And because of my background in English, I will most likely …(drum roll)…teach English.

Part of this answer was relieving. It was nice to finally have an idea of where I would be sent (although an entire continent isn’t exactly narrowing it down). However, part of me felt resigned in knowing I would not likely go to a Latin American region. I was really hoping to go to a Spanish speaking country for many reasons. It did not come as a surprise though, because I have talked to some returning PC volunteers (and friends of volunteers gone right now), and many of them had a background in Spanish and were still sent to locations like Cameroon or Kazakhstan.

I also asked how soon I would leave, and she said not until winter/spring of 2011, which really isn’t too far away. Less than 6 months away, actually. At this point I was excited, but my head started to swim a little bit and I had to focus on my breathing so I wasn’t overcome with anxiety. It’s a lot to take in, your entire life changing in less than 6 months.

I asked other questions concerning time spent on site, what my responsibilities would be, etc. We talked about food, we talked about language, and then it was time to wrap up. She read me some legal documents and talked to me about the next steps. And this is the point where I got really excited because after talking about so many things in a positive future tense she paused and said; “I mean, I can’t officially tell you this, but I see no reason why I wouldn’t nominate you.”

To be honest, I’m not sure if I clearly heard everything she said after this point. But now the process goes as follows: I’m nominated by my recruiter, Melissa, for a region. I get medical and dental exams and have all of the paperwork sent in. My paperwork and medical exams are all reviewed, along with the nomination by Melissa, and the higher-ups decide whether or not they agree. Melissa waits for a position that needs to be filled in my nominated region.I’m invited to join the Peace Corps in X country on X date doing X, and I have 10 days to respond. I pack up my things, spend time with friends and family, and try to get my fill of American culture before I say goodbye for 27 months. ***

I stand up and shake Melissa’s hand, thanking her for the in-person interview, and walk out the door. I walk around the corner and head towards the stairs and I notice a girl standing nervously nearby. She looks at me knowingly and with a nervous smile says hi. She looks like she wants to say something else but doesn’t know if she should. I smile at her and keep walking. Although I have a feeling she is next in line for an interview and she would do well to hear some encouraging words, my head is somewhere else. Things will go the way they're meant to go for her, and nothing I say will change that. I walk down the steps, past the secretary, and out the door. My wedges have already given me blisters and each step hurts like hell, but I walk like I don’t notice, because I don’t really.

I get to my car and sit down, not sure what do with myself. I look at my phone and there’s a text from Mackenzie:

“So how did it go? I’m dying over here!”

I texted back, “I nailed it!”

Telly Evans, July 25, 1974- June 16, 2010. Photo by Matt Yost

Last month, the world lost a dear friend. A mountain man, a river man, a great man.

I met Telly while I was stationed at Boundary Creek working for the Forest Service. When you live at your job (and your job happens to be in the Frank Church Wilderness) you make friends with people you may not have the opportunity to otherwise.

Along with a slew of private boaters, there are commercial groups that have an eight-day rotation for permits on the Middle Fork. I had the chance to meet hundreds of new people each week, but it was the commercial boaters who were a constant in the continuous influx of people coming to boat the River of No Return. Although they weren't the only people I looked forward to seeing, the night Telly's company Rocky Mountain came to Boundary was one I looked forward to most.

The bond that forms between people drinking around a campfire shootin' the shit week after week, year after year, is hard to describe if you haven't experienced it, and that goes ten-fold for the Middle Fork. Oftentimes, my good memories of Boundary Creek are synonymous with my times spent around Telly.

Telly had a presence that only someone of his nature could. He was over 6 feet tall with an unforgettable laugh that came straight from the belly and echoed for miles. He was good looking, gregarious, light-hearted, engaging, and welcoming. He gave good hugs. He mixed a mean cocktail that may have done little to his large frame, but knocked me flat on my ass. He was a storyteller, a conversationalist, a friend of many. His smile (and that laugh! You can never say enough about it) were incredibly contagious.

Telly and I weren't close friends, but I did consider him a friend.

Which was why it was like an arrow to the heart to hear of his passing last month. Especially the nature of which, (and I do not mean to exploit his death, but only say this to clarify) being that he took his own life.

I sometimes feel that because Telly and I weren't close friends, I don't have the right to feel this way. It seems that because I am not family, I have no right to cry. But it doesn't change the fact that a day hasn't gone by that I don't think about him, and that if I don't keep my mind busy, I still cry. I think about his family and his friends and the Rocky Mountain crew. I think about anyone who got the chance to sit and talk with him and discover what a great person he was. I feel awful for the loss these people have endured. They are on my mind more often than not. And yet I got a chance to spend more time with him than some, being someone who spent five summers seeing him every week, and I don't feel I deserve the same.

It has been a strange thing to work through, both mourning Telly and feeling undeserving the right to mourn. Yet I cannot deny the affect his death has had on me. I have come to the same thought over and over again during the sleepless nights when I can't chase away the confusion, disbelief, and sadness.

People don't understand the strength of their presence or the mark they leave on others. The imprints we leave on eachother's hearts and minds can be made in an instant and last longer than fingerprints, but are just as unique.

Does it matter that I wasn't as close a friend as some? Were we not two people put on this earth who met and shared time together, no matter how short? People come and they go, but it does not lessen their importance. It does not weaken the lessons we learn from them.

Telly is someone I will never forget. He never knew in those nights around the campfire he was making an everlasting impression on me, or that he was a player in an era of my life that has left me forever changed. And he probably never once thought I would be affected if he were gone. But I am, and his passing weighs heavy on my heart.

I didn't make it to Telly's memorial, and I have felt unsettled not being able to make a proper tribute. This is hardly deserving of such a great man, but it is the best I can do. I was taught to use my talents, and so writing of life and loss is what I have to offer.

Telly, you meant more to this world than you'll ever know. I hope wherever you are the rivers are as beautiful and wild as the Salmon, and you have found peace.

After years of attempting to learn the guitar with the aid of the internet, instructional videos, and books, I finally gave up the hope that I could learn by myself and took classes this last spring. Who was I kidding anyways? I'm surprised I can even follow a recipe, because I learn and comprehend new things best when working with real live people.

Anyways, it was a great class (about 5 people showed up regularly) and it got me started on the basics of chords, finger picking, etc. By the end of the term I could even play an F bar chord, something I thought impossible.

However, my second nemesis in learning the guitar solo was the lack of guilt and expectations. No one gave me a lesson plan or expected me to play a piece within two weeks. No one but myself that is, and I can let myself down time and time again, but letting down others is hard to do. So now that my classes have ended, I have slacked majorly on practicing. I don't even have any calluses on my fingers anymore.

I was working on the song "Blackbird" by the Beatles, and now it's like I've taken 3 steps back on my progress with the song.

This is going to be a lifetime project for me: putting hard work into things I want for myself because I want them, not because I'll feel guilty about letting down others. My instructor was there to fill the role as a helper, not to be my main driving force for learning the guitar.

Why is it that we are more likely to let ourselves down? Are we not worth the effort?

Alright, I got a complaint earlier today that I don't write enough on this blog o'mine, and I have another 45 minutes before I'm officially ready for sleep, so let's see what happens...

The other day I was talking to a good friend on the phone and we were talking about success versus failure. We concluded that more often than not, it is actually much more relieving to fail than to succeed. Think about it; what does success mean? What does it bring to your life? Success brings a whole new round of expectations and possible greater failures. Sometimes it's easier to swallow a "you did your best, better luck next time," than it is to comprehend all of your goals and wildest dreams coming true, and then having to maintain them. If you fall from the bottom rung of a ladder, it doesn't hurt as much as falling off the roof. You get what I mean.

The reason I bring this up is because today I (finally) handed in my Peace Corps Volunteer application. Talk about expectations. I have been thinking about joining the PC since around the same time I was in Costa Rica, which was three years ago. And three years ago, it was easy to dream about because I wasn't even close to finishing college yet. Now here I am, officially beginning the process to possibly be sent to a third world country for 27 months. That, my friends, is really freakin' intimidating.

I haven't spent 27 months consecutively anywhere in the last six years. The longest I've stayed in one place is nine months, and that record goes to Boise. Corvallis is about to meet that time quickly. Sure I've flip-flopped between two places (Boise and Boundary Creek), but even then it was interrupted by my study abroad in Costa Rica and Spain.

I have to admit, there were actually days when I was avoiding my PC application because I couldn't handle the magnitude of the decision I was making. It just scared me so much I had to walk away from it for awhile.

I would really love to be sent to a Central/South American country, but I don't have a say in that. They could send me to Zambia. They could send me to Kazakhstan. I could be going to China.

Seriously. China. All I can do is show them I've studied Spanish and hope for the best.

The other day at the coffee shop I was listing all of the reasons why I wouldn't make it in. I have a serious boyfriend (yes, this is a very valid reason why some people aren't accepted). I can't eat gluten. I don't have very much experience tutoring. I could've spelled something wrong in my application.

And a friend said, "You'll make it in, though. Don't you think?"

The very scary thing is, I really do think I'll make it in.

But even scarier is the regret of never trying. That five-years from now I'd be sitting somewhere, quite possibly very happy, but still wondering why I didn't even get up the courage to apply. That regret and "never knowing" feeling for not taking life by the horns scares me even more than a 27 month commitment in Azerbaijan.

I can deal with a "better luck next time," and I can deal with actually going forth into the unknown, but I can't deal with the "never known". I want to take advantage of this life and I want it to be everything imaginable. The scary, the intimidating, the fulfilling, the irreplaceable. I'm sure it will be all of those things. Part of me can't wait, and part of me wonders what the hell I'm doing. It's the best I've felt in months.

I'm up unusually early, and this song always makes me happy and ready for the day.

Plus, Sam Beam's beard and hair is amazing, so I don't mind staring at this picture while listening to his amazing lyrics and music.

Image of perception from drfabian.com. Google image rocks.

I'm sitting in the spare bedroom reading blogs and catching up with Facebook, and I keep smelling sandwich meat. Specifically, the really thin Western Family turkey. You know, the kind that in no way actually resembles turkey, is so thin it can dissolve in your mouth, and kind of smells like hot dogs? I keep smelling that, like when I was a kid and would just eat it straight and smell it on my hands for hours on end. Only thing is, we don't have such meat, and why would it smell like that in the spare bedroom?

It has taken me about 20 minutes to realize it's actually the lilies Justin bought me for my birthday. They are extremely fragrant (in a good way), but apparently somewhere between the dining room and here, the smell has taken a bizarre shift.

This isn't exactly the same, and I know this is a really round-about way of bringing this up, but how often do we (as in you, me, and whoever else) mistake things for something they aren't? How many times in a day are you absolutely certain you are perceiving something correctly, but perception has led you astray? And my biggest question is, how often is that discovered or corrected? Or does it need to be?

I'm not the person with the answers, but I sometimes wonder if anyone asks these questions regularly? Not of anyone else, but of themselves. How often do people double-check themselves, question something they think or assume to be true? I feel like I'm constantly asking these questions, because everytime I think I have the answer, someone else shifts the scales with different possibility. Not everyone can go through life constantly questioning their ideas and beliefs, but if people did more often would there still be fundamentalists? Would people continue to be so stubborn and unforgiving? Would people listen more to other ideas, collaborate more, gain deeper insight and tolerance, or build stronger communities and relationships?

Like most people, I don't like unanswered questions. Which is why I assume most people already have the answer made up in their mind about the world, in both the larger sense and their own personal sphere. I can think of so many things today in which my perception has been greatly altered. My question for everyone else is, when was the last time you questioned your perception of someone, something, someplace? And I don't mean lose confidence in yourself and your place in this world, just question.

Apparently, this whole world is just a matter of perception. And I have a feeling that perceptions are going to be shifting greatly in the near future. But that's just my idea. What is yours?

This song is a great song for anyone to listen to. It can pump you up, it can empower you, it can remind you what's right within.

I have my iPod on random and listen to it at work frequently, and whenever this song comes on I can't help but sing along even when customers are in line, or when I'm making a latte.

It's a simple song, and maybe that's why I love it. Because when you know what's right, life may complicate things, but the simple truth can't be ignored. And when it comes to your life, you shouldn't back down.

Shading assignment in a drawing/art class at BSU, 2006.

Black Sharpie and sketch paper.

Back when I used to actually use my artistic talents.

Estoy en crisis. Yes, you heard me, estoy en crisis. I am having a crisis. Why am I having a crisis? Because life is not black and white.

I am terrible at keeping my emotions to myself. When I do, it makes me physically ill. Emotions are very powerful things, and I know this because I become a walking train wreck every time I have to hold them in. They use my internal organs as punching bags, and as a result it effects every part of my life and makes me cry way more often than necessary.

I've been holding a lot of emotions in lately because they've involved a very big decision. There was awhile when I tried to ignore the emotions to avoid making the decision, which just made everything worse (as I stated above). Then, I wanted it to be my decision, one I made by myself and not persuaded by others. But that didn't work because then I was overwhelmed with this decision and it doesn't just involve me, so the decision wasn't just my decision to make and was unfair of me to hold in.

Confused yet?

This all came about because of one simple feeling I have that cannot be ignored:

Corvallis isn't cutting it.

I came to Corvallis to live with my amazing boyfriend, Justin, while he finished school. As most of you know, Justin and I have had a great deal of tribulation in our relationship concerning geography. We were both blindsided right before he was headed to Africa for a year when we, quite frankly, fell in love. So we stayed together, and after seeing eachother twice within a year's time (aside from Skyping constantly), Justin returned to the U.S. and I shipped out to Spain for five-months. It was depressing, heart-wrenching, crushing, and at times, too much to stand. But, we love eachother and we survived what seemed like an eternity of trials.

Then I was finally done with school, the moment that lead to the end of our time apart; the time we couldn't wait to happen. We could finally be in the same country together. Just one problem: we didn't live in the same state. Justin still had some time left at OSU, and I was based in Idaho. And thus came the decision to live together in Corvallis, one I made whole-heartedly, jumping head first with my eyes open.

But, Corvallis and I weren't cut from the same cloth. Just as it is anywhere new, it took me quite a bit of time to weasel my way into some sort of social scene, find a job, and simply find something to DO with my exorbitant amount of time. However, even when I finally found something to do, I looked around and I realized, "I don't belong here."

The thought was always, "Two more years." Justin has two more years and then after that, we can go wherever we want.

As you can probably tell from my previous blogs, I have an internal clock that's ticking...and it's not a clock that's telling me to pop out babies, it's not a clock that's telling me to get married. It's a clock that's saying, "Get out and go do something with your life!"

Justin is doing amazing here. For the first time in years he is completely motivated to do 100% in all of his coursework, he has a job he loves that he is quickly excelling at, plus he's heavily involved with extracurricular activities at school. He is doing fantastic (aside from lack of sleep from doing all of these at 100%) and is so busy I am lucky to see him for an hour a day. And me, I'm trying. But I can't deny that this isn't the place for me.

After trying to hold this inside and getting my intestines and mental and emotional health beat to hell, I finally had to talk to Justin about going somewhere else-- without him. And being the amazing, understanding boyfriend he is, he knows these are things I have to do.

I've started my application for the Peace Corps and I'm looking into other volunteer opportunities abroad. This is something I have to do before I sign any papers dedicating my life to another person. These are things Justin fully understands and appreciates.

But...then there's Boise. Oh, Boise, how I miss thee and your inhabitants. And there's the extra room in Lindsey's house. There are all the things about the city I love that keep pulling me back...

And so, I'm thinking of returning to Boise. To live. This summer. Without Justin. Before I leave the country for an undetermined amount of time. And I've been given an opportunity to move back to Boise, but I have to make my decision...by this weekend.

And so here I am, literally sitting at a fork in the road that happens to intersect with a train crossing, and if I don't pick a direction to go I'm getting run the fuck over.

And some of you (as well as myself) are thinking, "What, are you crazy? You just got to Corvallis and now you're leaving? What about Justin?" and others are thinking, "About time! Get your ass back to Boise! You have to live your life. Justin will understand."

And all of this is....too much.

Things just aren't black and white. It's not, "I love Justin therefore I'm staying," and it's not, "I have to think of myself, therefore my relationship is taking a back seat."

It's that I love Justin and I love myself, but I have to be true to myself. And just because Justin says he understands I need to go, it doesn't mean there won't be consequences to that decision and hardships for our relationship.

There is so much gray area in this life and in this decision. There are consequences for leaving, there are consequences for staying. This has been beating me up inside for so long, and it is exacerbated by the deadline of my decision.

If life were black and white, this would be easy. But it's not.

The fact is, I made the decision long ago. It's whether or not I can handle the consequences of said decision and go through with it that is the question.

Think about your normal day.

How often do you check your e-mail? How long do you spend in traffic, sitting at red lights? You drink coffee, you store your lunch in the company fridge (or go out to eat). Do you carry cash or rely on your debit card? You sit on a computer, you listen to music, maybe watch some youtube videos.

All these little things about our day that we think nothing of, but consist of so much.

Today my average day was jerked to a halt. Now, my average day isn't the average American's day. I wake up anywhere between 8 am and 11 am. I ride my bike down the steepest hill in Corvallis to work on the busiest street. I spend six hours making coffee, food, and chatting with customers, usually while playing my favorite music. Everything has a process, everything has a flow, and everyday is usually the same.

That is, until the power went out.

Oh how easily we forget what our lives would be without electricity...

The music [literally] jerked to a stop, the coffee stopped brewing, the credit card machine went black, and it seemed as though everything stood still.

We couldn't work the register. The wi-fi internet went out (for those with enough battery saved on their laptops). We couldn't sanitize the dishes. We couldn't grind or brew any coffee and we couldn't open any fridges for fear the delicate balance of health-code temperatures would rise.

But surely this was just a passing thing? Something that would turn back on within minutes?

News came that the power was out down the street. The power was out on campus. The power was out all over town.

Stop lights were out. Campus was pitch black. Businesses closed up. And my GOD...no one could charge their electronic devices.

The power outage continued, and we had to turn away customers without cash and offer only pre-made items up for sale. People took their bike-lights into the bathroom in order to see the toilet. Some who were taking advantage of our wifi mulled around, walking inside and outside and muttering how bored they were. One customer even said, "My God, I'm reduced to reading the newspaper."

Thirty minutes went by. Then an hour.

It was so quiet. The chattering had hushed. Once a word was spoken it couldn't be taken back, it bounced off the walls and into the coffee shop for everyone to hear. The usual buzzing of everything around us could no longer cushion our voices.

Soon my co-worker and I had nothing left to do. And it just became natural for us to sit down, as if we didn't work there.

I don't know if the people that were in there were stranded, wasting time, or just had nothing else to do, but they just stayed and sat. Soon we were all talking, brought together by this common bond of bewilderment without electricity. If I were camping, or out at Boundary Creek or Indian Creek, I would have no problem. But something about being in the middle of a city without electricity makes everything lose order.

After I let my mind race through survival mode, I let myself just be. And we all just kind of sat there, people who see each other every day and exist in a symbiotic relationship; the coffee shop and the customer. Comrades in our routines, living as complete strangers.

So the wall between the cash register and the customer line was broken down and we talked and just as we came up with new things we would do because of this situation and new ideas of how to go about our day, the lights came back on.

The shop was immediately loud. Loud with the buzzing of electricity and angry machinery pushed out of its routine and abruptly brought back to life. And so we stood up and went back to work. The music came back on, the customers with their credit cards came back in, and the espresso machine hissed with its next creation.

I was sad to see it return.

For five years I worked as a seasonal in the Forest Service spending my summers in back-country guard stations. This time of year I always get an itch to go back to that stillness and silence, but this year I'm not returning. The hour and a half of power outage in the buzzing coffee shop that has become my life was so perfect and simple. I wish more of my days were like that. I was allowed to just stop and take notice. We could all use more moments like that.

Middle Fork Trail near Indian Creek in the Frank Church Wilderness

August 2009

All Alone.

I am a runner. I like to run. I may not run everyday, I may not run every week, but it’s in my blood and in my genes and I accept it fully. I may not be as fast as some, but I’m faster than others and it doesn’t matter either way. I’m just another girl, out there, running.

The other day I bought a book on running, specifically for the reason of training for a 10k, half marathon, and eventual full marathon. I bought the book The Complete Book of Running for Women.

It should’ve gone as no surprise that the sixth chapter was titled, “Running Safely.” And it didn’t mean safety from injury; it meant from being attacked.

Do you ever have moments where you have almost an out of body experience? Where you’re put somewhere else and suddenly realize, “Oh wait, that is my life,” before you come tumbling back to earth? Like you forgot your circumstances, your past, your present, and you saw everything for the first time?

I had that when I saw the headline to the chapter. It’s not like I don’t know I need to be safe running. I don’t even walk from my apartment to my car without a game plan about what I’m going to do if some jackass is hiding in the bushes. As freeing as runs are, I constantly have to bring myself back to attention about where I am, what’s around the next corner, if anyone would notice if I was gone. But reading that chapter just reaffirmed, “No, this isn’t a bad dream, this is your reality. You will never be 100% safe because you are a woman.”

And I’m not trying to get all extreme-man-hating-woman-mafia on you guys, but how much does that fucking suck??

A couple months ago I was reading Cunt; A Declaration of Independence by Inga Muscio (per recommendation from my awesome lady friends in Boise) about being a woman in our culture and its influences on our lives on our relationships and our bodies. It is definitely a fierce, woman-power book (as you can tell by the title), but even I was having a hard time reading about how much men suck. Because men don’t all suck. They aren’t all raping, pillaging, thieving, self-serving assholes. The men in my family are amazing, my guy friends are amazing, my boyfriend is amazing. But there are those guys out there who ruin it for everyone.

However, the book had some very valid points. I came to a chapter titled, “The Anatomical Jewel,” where she discusses something as simple as getting on her bike to go to the store, at night, to pick up soy milk. She actually dresses as a man so that no attention is paid to her. Her language may be considered “colorful” for some of you, but she writes,

“I’m fully privy to the reality that my cunt’s presence on my body can inspire people with cocks to attempt to exert their power by attempting to humiliate me. I have no illusions about what happens to women in “the wrong place at the wrong time.” I have seen too many movies, read too many newspapers, watched too many episodes of Unsolved Mysteries. I know too many people who have been raped. I do not pretend too realistically that I am free to go where I please.”

Now, I may not have agreed with her that everything bad on this earth was because of a man, but where could I disagree with her on this?

Think about this statement once more: “I do not pretend too realistically that I am free to go where I please.”

I think sometimes I like to pretend I can go wherever I please, because I am an independent, adult woman. However, I forget that I don’t go wherever I please because it is automatically ingrained in me not to go certain places. It is automatically ingrained in me not go certain places alone at certain times of day with or without certain people.

Obviously there is inherent danger in some situations with anyone, male of female, but how many more situations are there present for just female? And I’m living in a country where I’m considered lucky.

I know I’m beating a dead horse here, repeating what everyone has known from the beginning of time, because until recently, women couldn’t go anywhere by themselves. But I am saying this because I am seriously going to start looking for self-defense classes in Corvallis. (I should mention Corvallis was ranked one of the safest cities in the U.S., but that doesn’t matter. As a woman, my chances are 1 in 4 that I will be raped in my lifetime. I don’t like those odds.)

I want to go running. Running is my release, running makes me feel strong, it is freedom. I want to go on a run by myself and be free. And although I’ll never be fully free, I don’t want to just think about what I would do if someone did jump out of a bush, I want to know what I would do.

And seriously, I mean if I haven’t in the next month come up with a class I’m going to attend, I want all of you to hold me to it. And if you’re one of my rockin’ woman friends (or just a woman who has stumbled across this), I hope you have too.

And if you’re a man-- love the women in your life. Honor them, be good to them, and let them blossom. Let them feel free in a world where they may not be.

And don’t you dare think you’re better than them. You never know if they’ve learned to throw twice their body weight on the floor and hang anyone in their way out to dry.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed in '91/'92

Once when I was in the 1st grade, I had a question for my teacher, Mrs. Stevenson. I don’t remember what the question was, but it was important enough to take time away from my recess, seek her out, and ask her. Anything that important must have been vital.

I found Mrs. Stevenson in the hallway near our classroom talking to Mrs. Forester, the other 1st grade teacher. Whatever they were saying was of no importance to me, but by the way they didn’t so much as glance at me, it was obviously very important to them. So I gave them a couple of seconds, and then tried to interject my question. I barely got out a peep before they continued talking, not even noticing my attempt to disrupt their conversation. So I stood and kept my mouth shut a little longer. No way whatever they were saying was going to take that long to discuss, right?

But they kept talking,

and talking.

I kept my mouth shut because I knew if I didn’t I would surely get in trouble. But even knowing to keep my mouth shut wasn’t enough for me to cease attempts to interrupt. I would let out a peep, only for it to be dismissed again and the conversation to continue. So I stood there, mouth shut, waiting. And waiting. Recess slipped away. Kids walked by me with jump ropes and kick balls.

I waited.

The doors would swing open to the playground and I’d hear talking, yelling, and laughter wave into the silent hallway, only to be cut off by the shutting doors.

I still waited.

They kept talking.

My legs started to squirm. I bit my lip. I twitched my fingers. I stared at Mrs. Stevenson’s face. My heart beat faster. Maybe if I stared really hard, maybe if I swayed back and forth, she’d realize what I had to say was important?

They kept talking.

I stared. My pulse raced. The clock ticked.

They kept talking.

The door opened and laughter came in and out. I bounced on my toes.

They kept talking.

It felt like electricity was rushing up my neck,

like words were trying to kick their way out of my mouth,

like my head was going to explode if they

wouldn’t stop talking,

wouldn’t look at me,

wouldn’t listen to my question,

and wouldn’t let me go outside and play.

And then finally, Mrs. Forester walked away, and Mrs. Stevenson looked at me.

“Amanda,” she said in a commanding voice.

“Yes?” I bit my lower lip (I am sure I did, because it was a bad habit of mine then). My stomach sank as I waited for the ensuing lecture I was sure to get for attempting to interrupt with my little peeps and my squirmy body parts.

“Thank you for being so patient. You did a very good job waiting for us to finish our conversation. Now what do you need?”

I was shocked. That was the first time I remember being told I was patient.

-----

Today, I am outwardly a lot more patient, but on the inside I’m still the same six-year-old trying to keep her head from exploding. I’d like to think I’m a lot better than some people, but there are still many things that I want to happen, and happen now.

Maybe it’s my generation or the way society as a whole has become. We want everything faster, better, shinier, and good damnit, in fact, fantastic. Instant downloads, instant pudding, instant gratification. We want it all so much and so fast, we cnt evn spel it out.

I wonder how many people started this blog and after seeing the length decided they didn’t have the patience to finish reading it?

Patience has always been hard. That’s why it’s a virtue. It’s as if our society has so many conveniences that our idea of patience is a little skewed.

Right now, the thing I’m most impatient about is where I’m at in my life. I want to be in so many different places doing so many different things that I feel like I’m ready to jump out of my skin. I want to be in South America, I want to be in Spain, I want to be writing and traveling, I want to be learning new things, I want to be in Boise with my friends, I want to be here in Corvallis with Justin. I want, I want, I want!

But, I can’t. At least not now, or not all at once. So I have to pick and choose and be mindful about where I am now, who I’m with, and what I’m doing.

Since I can’t be a globe-trotter, a travel writer, a language expert, or international gluten-free food connoisseur, I am taking time to do the things I never got to do. Things I've wanted to do but never had the time or took the time. I am finally making myself sit down and learn the guitar. I always felt like I couldn’t do it on my own, that I had to have a teacher I went to every week. But after some pushing from my brother (who is a music teacher and excellent at the guitar), I am taking time everyday to practice chords, or even just press my fingers on the strings to form calluses. I am not a natural at the guitar, and I am terrible at memorizing notes and chords. I may not have someone giving me lessons every week, but at least I’m starting what I felt like I couldn’t without someone instructing me.

I’ve also taken up swimming. In Challis, the closest thing to a pool was the hot springs. I learned how to save my life, but not how to swim a lap. My boyfriend is taking the time to help me with my breathing and swimming technique at the OSU Recreation Center. It’s been hard, and I feel inadequate next to the girls who do their fancy-flip turns and swim really fast while I use a kick-board or a flotation device to keep my hips from sinking. But, I’ve had a lot of fun and I’m already getting better just after a couple days a week for the last three weeks. Justin and I now swim, run, and bike every week. Although I may not be signing up for a triathlon anytime soon, I feel better about myself and like I’m accomplishing something.

Some days, I still feel like I’m doing nothing and getting nowhere. I have to step back sometimes and realize I’m actually doing quite a bit. By taking up these hobbies that I’ve either never had time for, or have given up on time and again, I’m taking up the practice of patience. It takes time to learn new things, and it takes patience to stick with it. I have to stop expecting myself to appear at the finish line when I haven’t put the work in to get me there, or even signed up for the race.

I think I will always be an impatient little girl on the inside; squirmy and unsettled. But it doesn’t mean I don’t know the good things in life take time. It just means I will be pushed to do more. I will try to turn my impatience into determination, and maybe in the end I’ll gain a virtue that so many of us need, but have a hard time waiting to receive.

When I was living in Granada, I experienced something I was not used to growing up in a high mountain desert area in Central Idaho; an abundance of fruit. Not just fruit in the super mercados or street markets, but also as part of the vegetation. Oranges were especially abundant.

One day as I was walking (as I often did) I went along the edge of the river that cut through town. I looked down into the not-so-clean waters and I saw an orange bobbing. And I don’t know why this struck me so, but all I could think was, “What a waste.” I was not in absence of food, but I wondered if someone who was in need of food would look at that bobbing orange and wish they could have it instead of the river.

I must have been in one of those moods that day, because this orange became quite a focus for me. This orange was not just an orange floating along; It was waste. It was rich and poor. It was starving children. It was, “God-giveth-and-God-taketh.” But of course, being the over-analyzing person I am, and being human, I had to make sense of this debacle in my mind. This is what I came up with to make myself feel better:

There is a lot of fruit in the world. Some fruit that people don’t even know about, in places people can’t get to. It is impossible for every piece of fruit to be used and taken advantage of. Some fruit gets picked at the right time; some falls to the ground and rots. Some are taken before they have come to fruition. Some are formed in seasons that make them unfit. Some fruit is bought and gobbled up, and other fruit is bought and still rots.

(And here’s where I get really sappy and Hallmark like) God, the Universe, Allah, Great Spirit, Atoms, Cellular Division, whatever, did not make us to perform the same task. Just like the orange, not all of us can prosper and come to full fruition.

Lately, I feel like rotting fruit on the counter. As if I were picked to fulfill many things in this life, but I am not doing everything I can to accomplish them. It is an empty feeling, one that makes me question everything about who I am and where I’m going. I don’t want to rot. I don’t want to fade away. Somehow I need to find my way back to the place where I wasn't just a rotting fruit, but someone who made things happen.

January 12th, a 7.0 earthquake shook Port-au-Prince, Haiti to shambles, killing thousands. I don’t need to go into detail, because everyone knows. It was, and still is, on every news channel, in every newspaper, and even everyone’s Facebook. But that day I hardly noticed. I saw clips, I heard rumors, but it didn’t reach me. I knew, but I didn’t know. It was like, “Tragedy has struck a third-world country, again.” Another day that the news brings nothing but bad news.

My mind was so far away. January 12th, 2007, I stepped off a plane in Heredia, Costa Rica, bald, pale, wide eyed, and the words, “Hola, como estas?” as my only ways of communication. I began my first out-of-country experience. I began a trip that changed my life.

January 12, 2008, I spent my day recovering from a flight from London and my first European trip. I had just said goodbye to my boyfriend in the Heathrow Airport as he went off for a year on his first International experience in Stellenbosch, South Africa.

January 12, 2009, I sat in the house I’d live in all my years in Boise and packed everything I owned. I was going to Spain in eight days for my last semester of college, and things would never be the same again.

And January 12, 2010, I sat on the phone with one of my best friends I had made in Spain, Samantha, and wondered where my life would take me next. I ached for adventure and an unknown destination. We talked for hours about our lives since Spain. We lamented about the fact that we no longer live in a beautiful Spanish town and only a 15-minute walk away from each other, but instead thousands of miles apart and seemingly without a purpose.

“I just need to be shipped to an orphanage in South America,” Sam said.

I knew the feeling. I’ve been daydreaming about the Peace Corps, getting out of the country and challenging myself once again with a new culture and language. It’s sometimes all I can think about. It was all I thought about on January 12, and the days after.

It wasn’t until four days later that I finally allowed myself to think about Haiti. I had heard the news and had seen the pictures, but I kept it at a distance. I made it something that didn’t involve me; until I read a story.

My sister-in-law, Jess, sent me a link on Facebook to an article and asked me if while in Spain I had known anyone from the University of Portland. I hadn’t, but I read the story to learn more. The story was about Rachel Prusynski, a 22-year-old UP graduate from Boise who survived the earthquake in Haiti.

I read the remarkable and sad story of how she had survived the earthquake, even though she was on the top floor of a seven-story building that had completely collapsed. Sadly, her best friend, who was also in the building, did not survive.

In the article it said that she had spent a semester abroad in Granada, Spain. I didn’t recognize her, so I Googled her name to see if I could maybe find a blog or newspaper clip saying when she had been there. I found her blog while she studied in Granada, with the exact same colors and layout that I had on my blog while I studied in Granada. She had been in Spain at the same time that I had been in Costa Rica. I looked through her pictures not recognizing her face but all of the places she had been. Obviously the photos of Granada would be the same. But then she had photos from Portugal and the same small beach my friends and I had felt so special in finding. My heart sank to my stomach. This girl and I had a lot in common. It weirded me out, it made me feel strange. My sister-in-law commented on the link, “When I read the story I thought how easily that could have been you. Thankful you are here and safe!”

I had never thought of that. It could have been me?

I became obsessive at this point. I needed to know more. I found her on Facebook, and there she was. Her latest photos were from Port-au-Prince the week before the earthquake. The article said she had gone to Haiti in December to visit her friend who had been there since June. The photos were of her and her friend who had died—they were having fun, exploring, laughing, smiling, working.

They were working in an orphanage.

It could’ve been me.

And then I took it a step further. I became so obsessive that I looked up her friend’s Facebook. I looked at the still existing Facebook of a girl, who a week ago, was alive and putting her heart into work she believed in in a third-world-country, learning a new culture, learning a new language, making new friends…

It could’ve been me.

At that moment I felt like I knew them. I felt anguish for the family of this girl, for Rachel losing her best friend and returning home after surviving a disaster, and for all of their friends. It made me sick to my stomach and worried and sad, and all I could do was lie in bed and cry. I cried for the girls that could’ve easily been my friends.

I’m not perfect. I don’t always follow the news and I’m not always “in the know.” I can’t say I’m always aware of global tragedies or even see beyond what’s happening in my own life to realize the severity of what’s happening in others. And yeah, I spend way too much time on Facebook. But these girls made the situation real for me. Sometimes I just need a connection, someone to relate to, to make something so foreign and terrible feel like a tragedy at home.

And for once, I don’t feel like the only way to help is to leave my own country and leave my home. There is nothing I can do in Haiti to help, but there are things I can do here to help. And as much as my heart longs to globe trot and leave and be somewhere else in the thick of things, I know I’m better here. It’s hard to swallow, but for the first time in four years, I’m not running around the world. I’m staying put.

Today as I was driving back to Boise from Christmas in Challis, I was listening to my favorite radio show, This American Life. I had run out of new episodes to listen to on my i-pod, so I decided to pick some of my old favorites. “Break Up”, an episode about, you guessed it, breaking up, had a story about a girl who took some resourceful measures to cope with her recent break up with a boy she had a 10 month long relationship with. She wrote a break up song with the help of Phil Collins. However, through the sadly funny dialogue and delving into the heartbreak of the situation, the girl said something that struck me. And to be honest, I don’t even remember exactly what it was that she said, but it had something to do with being happy to even be just a tiny bit of her ex’s life, just as long as she was around him. Just as long as he wanted her around in some way. I know she wasn’t putting herself in a submissive position because she’s a woman, but more in the broken hearted, “I-just-want-you-to-love-me”, sort of way that most people feel when someone leaves them. But it got me thinking about love and relationships in general.

I started thinking about the book Captivating, by John and Stasi Eldredge. It’s the women’s counterpart to Wild at Heart. These books talk about the innate desires and wants of men and women, and life the way God intended. Although, I admit I didn’t get too far into it, the very beginning made me feel as if someone had found out my dirty little secret; I want to be desired. I want to be captivating and find my prince. Not that it is my life goal, but that deep down, I want to feel special and beautiful and pursued by someone worthy.

The feminist in me of course struggles with this. “No, you don’t want to be a princess in a tower saved by a prince! Disney has pushed that into your brain since you were a toddler!”

And true, I don’t want to be simply a prize to be won and put in a trophy case. But I want to be a prize to be loved. And even though I am not going through a break up, I can relate to this girl as she longs to once again be a part of this person’s life and to be wanted. And in my head, as if I was somehow in a one-on-one conversation with this girl I said, “Everyone wants to be wanted, everyone wants to be desired, but you shouldn’t just want him to want you. You should want him to respect you and treat you as an equal.”

I know, right? You’re thinking “What do you want, a Nobel Prize?” But it’s more than just equality in a relationship. It’s about expectations. So many of us want to be desired and want to be wanted. Basically, we want to be put on a pedestal in someone’s life. But no one will be able to fulfill our expectations, and instead of becoming equals with those we love, we get stuck. We either demand to be wanted, or beg to be wanted, and neither works. No one wants to feel as if they aren’t good enough, and when expectations reach fairytale heights, who is good enough?

Being born in the mid 80’s exposed me to contrasting messages about women and their roles and relationships in society. Disney movies subliminally drove home the message that Princesses are desirable and men’s approval is priority number one, while women’s rights, a strong mother, and supportive family let me know that my future and life did not depend on a man. In fact, it would be better without one. There are times when I don’t know whether the Princess in me is talking when the feminist should rise up, or if the feminist has lost sight of family and humanity in her quest to ditch the tiara. I feel that women of my generation have been stuck between a rock and a hard place when it comes to sentiments towards men and romance. How to make a relationship actually work through all that confusion has become harder than I thought it would be.

As simple as it may seem to say equality is what’s needed in a relationship to make it work, it’s not that easy (obviously, as Dr. Phil and the entire world has shown us.) However, I have realized there are some fundamental truths about relationships. All this time, I thought society and the Princess syndrome had driven me to want to be desired. But people in general want to be desired. Both people in a relationship have wants and needs and expectations, and in order to have equality, both need to be understood. Sometimes, expectations can’t be met. Until people can be true to themselves about what they want and what they need from someone, they can’t be true in a relationship.

Of course, a radio show on break ups had to be my inspiration on how to keep a relationship together. Although some relationships are not meant to last, and the majority of all relationships will end, there is that person that makes me want to work it all out for the best. The best may not be amazing, and it may not be everything I imagined, but I wouldn't want it that way anyways. Life and love isn't about what you expect. It's about what you receive from giving.

I don’t get embarrassed very easily. Which I think works in my favor, because my life has been comprised of a lot of embarrassing situations. And, it lowers my filter for my storytelling, and lets face it, I don’t have much of a filter. If I were a water filter, the end product would be murky compared to the tap water originally poured in.

So when pondering a new topic to write about in my dry spell of blogs, I didn’t even have to think twice. If you know me well, you know what’s coming next. If you don’t, be prepared to know Amanda a little bit better.

About three weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with my stomach hurting so badly, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I rolled around in my bed holding my stomach so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, but in so much pain I couldn’t sleep. Was I going to puke? Were my organs exploding? Was an alien about to tear out of me and begin making my roommates into food/egg sacks? It’s been known to happen before. I didn’t know what was happening, but I gave myself a mental note that if it didn’t go away in twenty minutes, I would wake up my roommate Becky to take me to the ER.

I must’ve fallen asleep again, because I woke up the next morning without a gaping hole in my abdomen. But the pain was still slightly there, and I spent the rest of the day going through waves of intense pain. I had recalled feeling a slight bit of pain in my right side the week earlier. So after talking to a professor at school who noticed my marked paleness and told me of an acquaintance who was an ER nurse whose husband died of an exploded appendix on their couch, I went to urgent care.

Urgent care decided I must have something wrong with my gallbladder and set up an ultrasound of my stomach. However, other than it sounding like Satan lived in my spleen, everything came out normal.

I was a little perturbed that my stomach was in so much pain and I was told I was perfectly fine, but I accepted the fact that maybe I was just stressing out and causing the pain to be more than it actually was. That is, until I woke up a couple mornings later to blood in my poop. (If you haven’t noticed, this blog is about to get ugly. This is your warning.)

I don’t know about anyone else, but blood and poop are usually pretty scary things to see together. I immediately called a primary care doctors office to make an appointment. Let me tell you, there’s nothing more fun than telling the receptionist “Yes, I need an appointment because my anus is bleeding.” Okay, I didn’t say that exactly, but “blood in my stools” doesn’t sound much better.

I went to the doctor’s office and discovered a series of scary things that could possibly be wrong with me. This was five days after the gallbladder diagnosis, and I had at this point lost six pounds, and was having stomach pain everyday.

“I think the best way to figure out what’s going on with you is a colonoscopy,” the doctor said.

I knew it was coming. You don’t have issues like gluten sensitivity and blood in your poop and get away without SOMEONE taking a look up there. I was just hoping I could be like the majority of the population who doesn’t get the pleasure of a camera shoved up there ass until they’re 40 or 50 years old.

So it was set. By the end of the week I was going to be scoped. But not without prepping first. If you don’t know yet from first hand experience, the worst part of a colonoscopy is the prep. Having a scope in your butthole is nothing compared to the work you have to do to get it primed for said scope. After being given a list of a strict diet I had to follow two days prior, I was given a prescription I needed to pick up.

“Now, when you get the prep, you need to drink all of it. A straw usually helps.”

“…Okay…”

What was that supposed to mean?

Well, I soon found out. At the pharmacy I stood at the counter and waited for the pharmacy tech to retrieve my prescription. She came back with a gallon jug with about two inches thick of powder at the bottom.

“Now, you’re going to want to mix this tonight and put it in the fridge. Also, drinking with a straw is very helpful. You’re going to want to buy hard candy to suck between glasses. Here are some flavor packets, but you may also use crystal light to flavor it.”

You know, usually when you have to pick something up at the pharmacy, you get to walk away with your medication hidden within the confines of it’s small paper bag. Not me. The line of people behind me all got to see me walk away with a gallon jug. Those that knew what it meant must’ve cringed inside, those that didn’t were probably wondering if I was picking up medication for a horse.

The next day, after a full day on a liquid diet, I was starving and wondering just how hard it was going to be to drink an entire gallon of laxative to myself. The directions said to drink a cup every fifteen minutes and to slow my rate to thirty minutes if I felt nauseous or vomited. Not a good sign.

Just to let you know, I don’t think any flavoring could’ve made that stuff taste better. Even though it was clear and poured just like juice, it had a thick feeling and unmistakable medicine taste. After three glasses, I felt like vomiting and was freezing since the only thing in my system was this cold elixir of death. But, I drank on.

After almost two hours, I hadn’t had a single bowel movement. I was 1/3 of the way done with the gallon jug, and all of it was still in there. I was bloated, I could barely bend over, and I was supposed to keep drinking it. HOW could I keep drinking it if it wasn’t coming out the other end? Probably the most terrible feeling ever. But, eventually, what goes in must come out, and thus began my evening of running to the bathroom every five minutes.

The directions said by the end of the gallon jug laxative, I would be excreting a “light yellow liquid.” So, in other words, the goal for the evening was to be peeing out of my butt. And in no time, I was pretty much doing that. However, no matter how much I cried and clutched my stomach, I could not stop drinking. After three liters I called several friends and family and said,

“I want to stop. I can’t drink anymore. I physically cannot drink anymore!”

“You have to,” is what all of them said.

By this point, the jug and my cup sat on the kitchen counter like a gun and bullets, and I would savor every last minute of my intermissions sucking on Werthers candies, dreading the moment I had to go back to them. I was peeing out of my butt at an incredible rate now, literally having a seconds notice. But that wasn’t as bad as the fact that my butthole felt like an irritated nose when it’s runny. I guess your anus isn’t prepared for nonstop liquid. After six hours, I finally finished.

The next morning Becky drove me to the clinic I was referred to for the procedure. Some of the laxative didn’t have a chance to get out the night before, so while signing paperwork I had to run to the toilet several times. I was called to the back before I finished the paperwork, so I took it with me.

Of course, like any nightmare of a visit to a hospital, I was instructed to get completely undressed and get into a backless gown that was big enough for someone 300lbs. It was so big that the neckline dipped low enough in the front to almost show my nipples (which one of the nurses found out when she was helping me and revealed my breasts). An IV was put in for my eventual sedation, and I attempted to fill out the rest of the forms. There is nothing worse though than wondering if you’re going to “leak” on the bed while you’re waiting for your procedure.

Soon the doctor walked in my room to talk to me before the procedure and figure out what’s going on, since I’ve never been a patient of his before. After shaking his hand he immediately asked,

“Have I met with you before?”

“Nope, never been here.”

“Hmm, you sure are familiar.”

“Really?”

“Where do you work?”

“….Big City Coffee…”

“THAT’S Where I know you from! I knew I recognized that friendly face from somewhere! I’m part of the Thursday morning biker crowd.”

“And I’m guessing he doesn’t mean Harley’s, haha,” the nurse said.

“Yeah…hahah...”

Always good to know a regular customer I serve is now going to become familiar not only with my friendly face, but my ass.

After our introductions, I was wheeled into the room where the procedure was going to take place. I was then asked to roll onto my side, in the fetal position. The doctor was talking into a tape recorder saying, “Patient Amanda Rodgers, complaints of…”

The nurse was prepping the scope, and I stared at the TV in front of me that would soon be featuring my ass. The screen showed lube being squeezed all over the camera. The sedative must’ve been dripped into my IV then because the shininess of the lube on the TV screen became stars that started to spin in circles. Round and round, these white stars swirled in circles amongst black and I said “Whoa…that is trippy.” I’m not sure if I said what I thought next, but I wondered if they showed this program on purpose to make the patients feel good and have fun, because it sure made me happy.

There was a point where I was slightly aware during the procedure. The TV screen was red and flesh colored, never coming completely into focus. I felt some force from behind me, probably from the scope being pushed in further. I tried to say something, but I’m not sure if I did.

I woke up groggy in a room with Becky sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed. A nurse I hadn’t seen before was standing next to me trying to wake me up.

“You need to pass gas,” she said.

“What?”

“You need to pass gas."

“Pass….gas? I need to fart?”

“Yes, pass gas. Do it.”

“Umm…okay.”

After what was the most difficult time I’ve ever had trying to figure out HOW to fart, I let out a decent ripper.

“Is that good?”

“Yes. Keep doing it.”

The nurse gave me some cranberry juice. She told me to get up and get dressed, but I could hardly see straight. I pulled on my underwear and realized I had to puke. I walked into the bathroom, sat on the floor in front of the toilet, and continued to take off my gown. Becky stood at the door of the bathroom, unsure of whether to help me or look away as I laid half naked on the bathroom floor. Somehow I managed to get my bra on, and then I threw up. I threw up again later before we left.

After coming home and sleeping for several hours, I woke up and ate almost an entire bag of gluten-free cookies and continued to fart out all the gas they had pumped into me. Until I got to the end of the line…and “wet” myself. Sometimes, you just have to accept that you are disgusting. My sphincter was so confused for the rest of the day. One moment I would think I had to fart and would instead crap (or, leak, since there still wasn’t anything solid in there), the next second I would run to the bathroom sure that I was about to crap myself, and just fart. Terrible.

Becky eventually came in my room and handed me the pamphlets the doctor had given to her to give me. One said “hemorrhoids”, the other “irritable bowel syndrome.”

I apparently have internal hemorrhoids, which are just like the external ones, only they don’t hang out my butthole. They’re irritated and inflamed blood vessels that grow really big, and then bleed because your poop smashes into them. Apparently it had something to do with the type of fiber I eat, which is a low blow for me, since I can’t EAT the majority of fiber in the world.

So, after two weeks, things have gotten better.My stomach no longer hurts (except for when I have excessive gas from getting a little overzealous with fiber) and blood no longer accompanies my poop. I officially feel old, as I am one of few 22 year olds who has to take Metamucil everyday and get a colonoscopy. Actually, it’s kind of sad that I had to go through such an expensive procedure for such a minor problem. But that’s how my life works. That’s how life in general works. We all have odd and unexpected experiences that push us to that next level of understanding. I’m a true believer that the more uncomfortable the situation, the more prepared you’ll be for the next one and better off you are. In fact, I literally cannot think of a more pride swallowing, uncomfortable medical procedure that I will ever have to do in my life. I have had cameras in every orifice on my body, doctors of all fields have seen me naked, and I just can’t think of a single humiliating thing left that I could be put through medically. Unless it’s a bedpan or sponge bath. But I think I would get over that too. In fact, I’ll be sure to blog about it.

They say that every story ever told follows the same basic pattern, the same plot line. There are only so many stories you can tell, before you run out. Each blockbuster-hit movie that comes out is following the same story line that people have been using for centuries, millenniums. People have been sitting around passing these stories on for forever. One thing that's interesting is a good majority of the stories have a common thread; they’re love stories.

Before I became the somewhat jaded and far too logical person that I am, my favorite love story was The Princess Bride. Who DOESN’T love The Princess Bride? It has everything you want in a story. A fair lady, a brave and handsome man, danger, adventure, humor, death, resurrection, greed, sadness, betrayal, money, war, revenge, magic, fire swamps, a Spaniard and a Giant. What more could you ask for? But of course, the part that rang true to me was that Wesley loved Buttercup so much that even though he was gone for 7 years and had to put on a façade as the dreaded Pirate Roberts, his one goal was to make it back to her. He felt that true love could not be stopped.

This story became one of the most powerful love stories for me, and still gives me a feeling of hope, and is often accompanied by a heavy sigh. The thought that two people could love eachother so much that their love crossed oceans, lasted without years of contact, and even survived death. Why else did The Notebook do so well? It had many of the same elements, and many people consider it the ultimate love story. I decided many years ago that I wanted a love story like that. I wanted to BE Buttercup, and I would have my Wesley.

Now I’m in the middle of my own love story. My boyfriend has been gone for almost 11 months studying in South Africa, and I’ve seen him once since he’s been gone. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. It could be five months, it could be eight. All I know is it’s hard, and that people on a daily basis ask me how I can even do it and all I can say is,

“I don’t know.”

Cause really, I don’t. How does someone spend everyday away from the person they love? How does someone base their relationship for a year off emails and random phone calls a couple times a week? How can you put yourself through the anguish of missing someone everyday? Some days, I can’t.

This part of the relationship is the part that no one wants to see in stories. The section is there to develop emotion and suspense. We get just enough time to feel the characters sadness. But the rest of the time is showing the couple falling in love in the beginning, and being reunited in the end. The Princess Bride doesn’t show the days that Buttercup sits in her room crying, laying in bed, moping around the farm. It doesn’t show her writing in her journal, or leaving gatherings early because her thoughts are so far away she can’t stand sitting with a group of happy people anymore. It doesn’t show Wesley curled up on the floor of the ship, hugging his knapsack so he doesn’t feel so lonely. You don’t see him pulling out a tattered picture for the 50th time that day, or writing letters he can’t send. We don’t see what really happens in the days where their love is tested by time and distance. Where is my reassurance from this story?

When Wesley and Buttercup are reunited and the Prince has been tied up and they’ve ridden off into the sunset, we assume all is well. We let out a heavy sigh and we are comforted in the thought that they are together once again, and that all is right in the world. Love has overcome all.

But what happens after the sunsets and rises once again and here sit two strangers who were once best friends? What are Wesley and Buttercup going to talk about?

Wesley: “Well, after I left you an honest man in search of money to wed you and then got mixed up with the Dread Pirate Roberts, I spent years raping and pillaging for profit, and keeping the reputation of DPR alive.”

Buttercup: “After you left, I was depressed and lonely, but then I was forced into a relationship with the Prince as a war tactic because I’m a woman and have no rights. So I’ve been living in the palace having nightmares every night and wishing I could kill myself.”

Wesley: “Oh…hmm. Remember that one time we ran through the field together?”

Buttercup: “Yeah.”

Wesley: “Yeah, that was fun.”

Buttercup: “Yeah, it was.”

Everyone just assumes love will resurrect their lives together. No one thinks about the passing of time, how both individuals change and grow, possibly growing apart. In a jaded world, love can fade and change can destroy relationships. In a jaded world, the love story ends with both people not knowing who the other is anymore, and walking away with the image of the person they had created to keep themselves warm at night dashed into a million pieces. In a jaded world, Buttercup would’ve asked Wesley where the hell he’s been all this time and told him he’s too late, because she’s engaged to someone who will give her security through money.

I suppose that’s not the point of a love story, though. As Shakespeare said, “Reason and love keep little company together nowadays.” I love these stories because they step outside the bounds of our jaded lives and tell us love is that powerful and can bring someone back from the dead. Because Love can overcome all, and comfort resides in the thought that love lives on. My reassurance from these stories lies in that very belief. I live everyday without the person I love because I hope the storybook ending can be mine. It’s scary. It’s hard and draining, and often I’m worried I’ll be made a lover’s fool before it’s over. But some day we’ll be together when the sunsets, and again when it rises.

When I was in high school, I drove a 1990 Blue Geo Prizm that was once my Mother's. It passed through the hands of all my oldest brothers, going through rites of passage of unruly boys, and then it was passed to me. This Geo could turn on a dime, and was the perfect car to drive around town with all your friends crammed inside, spinning cookies and driving far too fast. I never ran out of gas in it or had it break down on me. I never brought it home past curfew or kissed any boys inside of it. I miss that car sometimes. It's a car of my past, my ever passionate teenage youth, and I sometimes let those memories slip to the side.

Today at my internship, my boss told me about his 16 year old daughter. She had just gotten in a fender bender in her mom's car, losing all her rights to driving it. My boss laughed at how minor the mistake was, and how adamant the girls mother was in keeping her from driving again. "It's not like she totaled it," he said. It was in that moment that I was reminded of being 16, of the last time I drove the Geo.

"I totaled my car when I was 16," I said.

****

It was November, around Thanksgiving. The Challis air was cold and crisp, and even though winter was sure to have begun, snow was hard to stick. I spent the day with friends, taking in all the free time I could before a day of family time and wearing fat pants while eating. My brother Sean was in town from school, and much to his displeasure, I shared some mutual friends with him. So I spent the evening with people older than me who didn't have to worry about being home on time.

My curfew approached, and it was time to go. The sky was dark with a new moon and I drove home in a daze you can only accomplish while on a road you know like the back of your hand. It was only eleven o'clock, but I felt numb. My house, six miles out of town, was past dark emptiness and houses with large fields. Enrique Iglesias sang, "I can be your hero, baby," on the radio and I stared at the road without seeing, my foot like lead on the pedal. I stared ahead at nothing, when that nothing turned into something. Two white eyes and the gleam of a long thick snout were in front of me, and I gasped.

I only had time to gasp. The loudest sound I'd ever heard coupled with my body being suspended forward by my seat belt were what came next. Complete confusion, glass, and a bruised knee. I finally realized that words were spilling out of my mouth in a constant stream, a mantra of "Oh God, Oh shit, Oh my God..." I pulled my car to the side of the road, it moving forward not by any pressure on the gas pedal. The engine and radiator were broken. No, still rolling forward from my initial speed. I couldn't see out the front window. What was wrong with my window?

Glass was all around me, but I wasn't cut. There was something on the hood. Was it a body? A limb? Why couldn't I see it? I reached for the glove box and grabbed a flashlight, my headlights dimming. The window was shattered. Thats why I couldn't see. And it wasn't a body on the hood. It was my hood, rolled up. How foreign it looked, not smooth and disappearing from site.

Where the hell was I? I drove this road in my sleep and I had no idea where I was. I opened my door to the cold night air, wearing only a t-shirt but not knowing it. No lights around but my flashlight. And I heard it. Mooing. Mooing from hundreds of cows, moos of forlorn brethren deep in sorrow. Moos of mothers crying out. Crying, because I had killed one of them. I had hit a cow. A black cow. At 60 mph. And they knew it, they all knew it and they were angry with me.

I looked across the road and there was the dirt driveway leading to the ranch house. The driveway was less than 100 yards, but it felt like a mile. I ran the whole thing, cows mooing on either sides of me. I ran harder, worried one might come at me in its rage. I don't know if I've ever been more bewildered and scared in all my life. Glass in my hair, hands shaking, I knocked on the ranch house door past my curfew, past eleven o'clock. "I hit one of your cows."

****

"You thought the cows were mooing for you?" my boss asked, shocked by the story, but entirely amused by this distinct point.

"Yeah, I really did. But they were actually mooing because all of the cows had just been weaned that day." I had actually hit a teenage cow that had broken out and was searching for his mom. A 500lb cow as opposed to an 800lb one. All of the cows were just calling for eachother.

"Thats the writer in you," he said smiling. "The cows were mooing for you, because in your world, the world revolved around you. Such a writer's way of thinking.

"But you are so lucky. People are killed by accidents like that. You have a guardian, you have an angel. You must be destined for important work in your life. You were saved for a reason."

I was surprised my boss said that. I used to think that. I really used to believe that through all the crazy close-calls I've had, the cow-incident included, I was saved for a reason. God wouldn't let me die, because I had a purpose. Sometime in the last couple years I've forgotten about that. I've taken my place in the rat race and put my serial number on, and accepted mundaneness.

It's nice to be reminded of those times when life had purpose. To remember 16 and be thankful for the ambition and faith that was so blind and unbridled. I'm glad that someone told me today what used to be true to me, because it makes me want to believe it again. It gives me hope that there is something more.

I’ve never really known how to pray. I’m sure plenty of people would argue that, but really, I don’t think I’ve ever truly known how. I grew up Catholic, where all those times sitting, kneeling, and standing in perfect silence were meant to be spent in prayer. To be introspective and thinking about your sins. I was usually thinking about the chocolate donut in the back hall that I would have to sprint to get to before the other grubby kids got there. Or, I was staring at the personalized western belt on the person in front of me, and the geometric shapes their shirt made as the hem came together in the back. Considering how much I obsess on small, unimportant things for hours on end, I can’t seem to channel that into a stream of thought meditative enough to reach God. And if I was having a “conversation” with God, it always felt forced or awkward, usually starting out with “Um…hey…God?” It’s not that I never did pray, or that I was super shallow and didn’t have an introspective moment. But I wanted to be better. I wanted to be like the people that prayed often and sounded more like they were talking to a good friend. I just never felt that comfortable.

My inability to pray “correctly” actually bugged me so much my freshman year of college I started reading an old self-help prayer book from the 70’s that used to be my Grandmothers. It had a faded cover and a whole 180 yellow pages on how to pray. To say the least, it didn’t last long. It told me to lock myself in my room or closet and pray for 30 minutes a day. I would expect something a little more liberating from the 70’s. Not exactly my style. I got so caught up on how to pray, I felt inadequate in doing so.

I’ll admit, I haven’t done much lately in the way of trying to better myself in the prayer department. I’ve gone months and realized the time I used to spend at night “conversing” with God was spent thinking about something completely pointless. I’ve actually tried praying, and those same pointless thoughts usually interrupt it. Prayer hasn’t lost its importance to me, it just stopped feeling essential. I lost site of how prayer works in one’s life, and wanted more active results.

But sometimes things happen. Things that are heart wrenching and completely unfair. And I realize...I have nothing to give. That there is nothing I can say or do to help. My feelings of helplessness and sorrow for the people I care about are nothing compared to their sorrow.

Prayer suddenly becomes not only essential, but the only thing left on this earth to give. Neither I nor anyone else can do anything but ask that this be put into more trusting hands. And even though it sounds so cliché and I wish I could give more, action can’t be taken, and the best I can give are my thoughts and prayers.

Worrying about whether my prayers sound right or not seems so foolish now. There’s no reason to stop asking for comfort, blessings, and love to be showered on your friends and family. If only I would’ve pulled my head out of my ass sooner and thought of the hope and goodness I could be sending to others. Even if I don’t have all the words, God will know what I’m trying to say, and that’s all that matters.

I think it would be safe to say that all of us are searching. I say searching, because it never stops. We search for answers to the questions that nag us in our dreams, the doubts that haunt us in our wake, and the fears that creep out of the drain while we brush our teeth. The people that act like they have life figured out don't, and are probably the worst off since they're not admitting it. Because everyone has questions, and almost everyone wants them answered.

Well, since the Hyde Park Street Fair was going on this weekend, I knew where I was going to be searching; one of the many Tarot reading booths. 

If people have been gathering in churches for thousands of years, then they must have been getting their Tarot cards read at fairs for just as long. This practice has been going on for a long time. I'm not super knowledgeable about it, but I've had mine read a time or two, and it's entertaining, to say the least. Today, I felt like I had a pretty legit reading as far as the old cliche' fairground fortune telling goes. We sat at a small table underneath a canopy, music drifted in while people walked by talking, their children screaming. I could smell pulled pork the entire time from the food vendors. What an experience!

As far as answers go, the lady was pretty spot on. It seems so easy to say that, since some things that are said in Tarot readings are so general, it could apply to anyone. But I listened in on two other friends readings, and all of ours were completely unique and different. Mine was so right at some points, it was as if I was sitting in front of a mirror, just telling myself real blunt and honestly what was happening in my life.

And that's the thing about Tarot. It's not telling you some grandiose fortune or future, it's just laying out on the table the energy it's picking up from you now, and what could happen if you don't (or do, in some cases) act on these things. There wasn't a thing said to me today that I didn't know already, but some of it I didn't want to hear. Because for me, when it hurts too much to just listen to my heart, I go into my head and ignore what I know to be true for me. I try to intellectualize everything and turn it into a matter that could be solved with pen and paper instead of prayer and listening to myself. My guess is, this is the case for a lot of people.I wish I could be so honest and unapologetic to myself. It's not always easy to see things when you're in the middle of it, but more often than not, the answer is there.

Undoubtedly, I will continue searching and so will everyone else. Weird how even the answers themselves aren't good enough sometimes. Someday I hope that I will give up the quest, and start the search with myself. Someday I hope to have the courage to listen.